I Can't Do It Alone
by BenjaminWilliam
Summary: Faberry / All she knows is that she can't let Quinn go - not when she's certain that she's the only thing the Cheerio has to cling to.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first Glee multi-chapter fic. I'm not certain of the length but from what I have planned, there will be at the very least another ten chapters. Probably more. Warnings for: character death, drugs use, language, probably sex and corrupt police officers, amongst other things. A bit more angsty than usual. No Quinn in this chapter, but that will change (duh, it's a Faberry story). Reviews wouldn't go amiss. (: **

Rachel Berry has never been afraid to be different. Where her peers dream of two-parent families, white picket fences and maybe a dog, she dreams of stardom. She longs to tread the boards of Broadway, and she'll be damned if falling in love is going to get in the way of that. At the moment, however, it doesn't really matter. There's no one in Lima who could possibly hope to catch her interest, let alone keep it for any length of time. She's a high maintenance girl, and she has no qualms about admitting that. Lima Losers could never hope to keep up. Still, Rachel Berry has needs - "girls want sex just as much as guys do". She didn't say it to spite Quinn Fabray, she said it because it was___true_. It ___is_ true. Which is the only real reason why she keeps Noah Puckerman around.

He's a complete and utter asshole, sure – he's also a self-proclaimed stud. That is more than enough for Rachel Berry, and it's why she's sitting with him at a crowded table with a heavy dance beat blaring in her ear and a host of shots in front of her. Her hands grab for one of the glasses, and when they find it in their shaking grip she tosses it back. Setting the now empty glass on the table, she looks at Noah expectantly – this is usually the part where he takes advantage, but he doesn't even glance at her. His eyes are on the door. His eyebrows furrow, and then he offers his letter jacket to his on-again off-again girlfriend.

"Hold my jacket, I'll go get more drinks," he says quickly, barely giving her time to grasp it before getting up and walking purposefully towards the bar. Rachel takes the proffered garment and, despite herself, slips it over her shoulders. It's sweaty, and smells of beer, but she really doesn't want to leave it on the floor with the trodden in chips and spilled sambuca – that will just make the stench worse, and Noah has a habit of making her wear it when it's cold out. He likes to play the doting boyfriend, even when they both know that neither are in it for more than sex. Sometimes, it's sweet. Others, it's suffocating.

She casts a glance over the the bar, to see her boyfriend's mohawk just jutting out above the heads of others. He's near the front of the queue now, and she imagines it won't be long before he comes back with more booze to join the dozens of empties on their table. She never used to drink so much, but lately she finds that the only way she can stand to be in Noah Puckerman's company is with a pleasant buzz at the very least. Sober, he's the annoying jock that he always was. Drunk, he can be anything she wants. The boy turns around to look at her, and she gives him a small wave to which he reverts his attention back to the bar. Almost like her tiny action had burned him.

Noah's been acting strangely lately. It isn't anything she can put her finger on exactly, he's just twitchier than usual. I

"Excuse me, miss?" she hears from her left, and she tears her gaze away from Noah to look into the face of a rather average middle-aged man. He's dressed in a suit jacket and jeans, and when he finally manages to catch her attention it's to wave a leather badge holder in her face. "Matt Horner, Lima PD. We're doing some random searches, since that knife attack here last year. Mind if I take a look?" He gestures to the jacket she's wearing and she feels her heart leap into her throat, where it thuds violently. She could only pray to god that Noah was clean tonight. Was he ever?

"Sure," is the only answer she manages to squeak out. She shrugs out of the McKinley sportswear and holds it out to the officer. Where is Noah when you fucking need him? In the dim light of the club, the teenager can barely see the contents of the pockets that the policeman is casually going through, tossing anything to be regarded with suspicion onto the tabletop along side her glasses. When he's finally done, he lays the item of clothing down on the chair that Noah recently vacated unbeknownst to him and picks up a small pouch from the three confiscated items. He passes it back and forth between hands like a baseball, and then grasps it between his thumb and index fingers so she can see its contents just barely glimmering in the darkness. White powder.

"It's not mine," she tells him, and from the way he chuckles she can tell that that's the answer he gets from everyone. "It's not!"

"Okay, darlin'," he drawls, and she cringes, "We'll play it your way. Who's is it's?"

"My boyfriend's," Rachel states matter-of-factly, "Noah Puckerman, he's-"

"Oh, I know Mr Puckerman, sweetie," the officer tells her, "His mom's a good...family friend of mine." Rachel fights back the urge to vomit - could he make it more obvious he'd had sex with her boyfriend's mother? "Now, let's be clear on this. You are _certain _that this belongs to Noah Puckerman? Because I'm telling you now little girl, if I find out that you're lying to me, then I'm going to request that you be tried as an adult." He casts his eyes around Rachel's table to see all of the glasses the girl has drained - seemingly by herself, because he doesn't see a sign of anyone else having been there. "After all, you seem to think you're twenty-one."

Rachel's lip trembles noticeably, but she somehow manages to stand her ground even so. "It's not mine," she repeats, and the officer shakes his head.

"Fine, we'll do this the hard way," he straightens up from where he was crouching by her, mere inches from her face, and points a threatening finger at her, "You better be here when I get back, kid." With that, he makes his way over to the bar to converse with Noah Puckerman. Once he's out of sight, Rachel breathes an audible sigh of relief now that she's been given space to think. She snatches up the last full shot from the table, and quaffs it quickly. It was Noah's whisky, instead of her own Sourz, and it had an unpleasant burn as it blazed a trail down her throat. Her quest for oblivion didn't let her care. She scours the surrounding tables, all of which are empty, for any left behind liquor. There isn't any, and the diva supposes she should be thankful. Any more to drink and she won't be able to stumble, let alone run out of the bar if she has to. She sinks back into the wall seat she's occupying and runs a hand through her tousled, damp hair while fighting her internal panic.

Noah wouldn't let her take the fall for this, would he? No, she tells herself, he probably wouldn't.

It doesn't hold a great deal of conviction, even in her mind. They weren't in love, they were, in fact, little more than fuck buddies until they got out of this backwards little town - why ___wouldn't_ he let her take the fall? It's with fear beyond such that she has ever known that she wonders if Broadway productions take actresses with criminal records.

No, she thinks, they probably don't.

Rachel's eyes stay on the bar, hawk-like, as she watches the interaction between Noah and Matt Horner. As he approaches, the older man smiles and claps Noah on the back. It's a gesture that her boyfriend returns enthusiastically, and the star knows that things are not looking good right about now. The two men make casual conversation over a beer which Noah hands to the officer in an attempt to butter him up until, after what feels like a century and yet is probably little more than two minutes, the civvies officer waves a hand in her direction. She watches hopefully, praying that her eyes portray just how much she needs Noah to take responsibility for his own actions just this once. Their eyes lock, and she knows that Noah can see the desperation in the brown depths of her own. He looks at her, his eyes narrow marginally, and then he turns to Horner and shakes his head.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

******A/N:**** Ignore that letterman jackets have any form of identification. I assumed (wrongly) that there was one generic design given to all athletes. You should assume this too, for this chapter to work. Also, I feel I should point out that this story may not be entirely realistic. That's why it's fiction.**

**Oh, and Glee isn't mine. Much to my disappointment.**

In the time it takes Noah and Horner to navigate through the mass of people crowding the dance floor, Rachel has run through a hundred and one different ways she can get herself out of this mess in her mind, twice. She wonders if she could sneak out with the hen party congregation in the corner, but before she can even start to stand she has two grown men flanking her. Her eyes flicker between the policeman and her boyfriend, and with every passing second her heart starts to beat ever so slightly faster. Her hand reaches for Noah's and he snatches it away quickly, looking at her like she's the dirt on his shoe - maybe she is, with the way he's walking all over her.

"Noah, tell him it's not mine!" Rachel cries out, shrill even to her own ears.

He seems torn between her and Horner, but only for a split second. Then his attention goes solely to the police officer, and he says, "I don't know her." He looks at Rachel, his voice and visage insistent: "I. Don't. Know. You." His tone makes the star flinch subtly, and she can't stop her hands from trembling in her lap. If- ___When_ her dads find out about this, she'll be lucky if she ever gets to leave the house again, never mind Lima. What had started as an innocent night could end up leaving her dreams in tatters, and she wills herself not to break down in tears.

"Well, Miss..?" the officer starts, looking at the teenager in front of him expectantly.

"Berry. Rachel Berry."

"Well, Miss Berry, if this," he holds up the Ziploc for her to see, "isn't yours," he thrusts a finger in her direction, "and isn't his," his thumb jerks towards Noah in a much less violent manner, "then tell me: whose is it?" He's leaning into her, barely two inches from her face and Rachel recoils at the proximity.

Finally, she shrugs and opens her mouth to somehow defend herself when a voice cuts across her own. "It's mine."

Horner looks as shocked as she does. They both turn to look for the source of the voice, past Noah Puckerman to the tall blonde girl standing behind him, one hand on hip and looking exceedingly pissed off. Outside of school and not in her Cheerios uniform, Rachel almost didn't recognise Quinn Fabray. The seventeen-year-old is wearing a cyan mini-dress that clings in some places and falls off in others, all in the right way. Rachel swallows audibly, and she feels her throat constrict. It takes every effort to reminds herself that this is ___Quinn Fabray_, and she needs to tear her line of sight away from the other girl's legs. It is the cold, calculated voice that aids the connection in her mind - a voice which usually made deprecating comments at her expense, and was now...defending her? The thought of Quinn as a knight in shining armour didn't help to quell the light throbbing between her legs. She has definitely had far too much to drink.

Before she can say anything, which is probably a good thing in her inebriated state, the policeman chuckles darkly. "Fabray, I should've known. Although I didn't figure you the type to leave your boyfriend's letter jacket just lying around. Isn't parading it about for everyone to see something you girls get your kicks out of?"

The teenager's jaw clenches. "I'm a cheerleader. It's ___my_ jacket, jackass. Puckerman and his band of steroid-pumping freaks aren't the only athletes in Lima."

"Cheerleaders, athletes? That's a good one," he says, and both girls silently wonder how such a misogynistic asshole got to be a police officer in the first place. Puck just wishes he would grow up to be half as awesome. Once he's done laughing at his own joke, Horner's face becomes stoic. "So, shall I just add this to your list?"

"Sure, why not? Soon I'll have enough summons to re-paper the whole bathroom," Quinn quips simply, and Rachel has to fight the urge to giggle. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but the diva finds that the blonde's cutting remarks are funny when they aren't being thrown at her.

There's a moment where the officer's face looks almost sad, and he heaves a sigh. "You know what, Fabray? You think you've got it all worked out, but you're so, so ___wrong_. This time next year, you'll be eighteen. And all these convictions are gonna come back to bite you in the ass."

"Let me worry about that," Quinn says as though she's brushed it off, but Rachel can see that she's visibly troubled by Horner's words. "Can I have my jacket back?" she asks pointedly in order to keep up the charade, "Take the blow. I'll just get more."

Rachel struggles to believe that Quinn has the nerve to talk to an officer of the law like that, but she seems to be the only one. Noah just looks annoyed at the entire situation, and Horner just has that same disappointed look that reminds Quinn of her father. Maybe that's why she hates the douche so damn much. Quinn notices the diva's incredulity and she shoots a glare in the brunette's direction, "Stop catching flies and stop fucking staring at me." There is an awkward pause in which Rachel stares at her hands and the officer glances between the two girls with growing confusion.

"Wait, Fabray...Why did she have your jacket?"

Shit. The cheerleader hadn't thought of that, but she couldn't let him know.

"She was cold," she answered matter-of-factly, "so I gave her my jacket. Am I not allowed to do something nice for..." she swallows, and for a second Rachel thinks, naively, that the other girl's going to puke, "a pretty girl?" Quinn's face says she's done something worse than vomit.

Horner arches an eyebrow, but he ultimately lets it go. He has a girlfriend to get home to, and he's currently beyond caring about Quinn Fabray. The chase had been fun when he was going after the mousy brunette, but faced with the girl he had an altercation with every other night it deteriorated to dull quickly. The cheerleader wasn't intimidated by him in the slightest, and she definitely didn't cower the way Berry had. She left him feeling disappointed. What was the point of joining the police force if you couldn't instill a sense of fear into everyone around you?

He sighs and looks at his watch. Twelve twenty-five. He should, strictly speaking, ask the teenager to accompany him to the station. But, ___strictly speaking_, he should have finished his shift half an hour ago. So he decides he'll just note on her record that she evaded apprehension. It's much less time consuming that way, and he has better places to be than the precinct. "Expect a letter in two to three weeks," he tells her, despite knowing that she really doesn't care.

This time, Quinn doesn't bother to answer back. She just grabs Puck's jacket and slings it over her shoulder at the same time as the small pouch of coke makes its way into the plain-clothes policeman's jeans. Her eyes burn a hole into his retreating back, and she wonders cynically if that bag will ever make it back to the station. She doubts it.

Puck follows Horner's lead not ten seconds later, and Quinn has an even harsher glare reserved for him. "Asshole," she mutters under her breath, before turning on her heel to make her way back to the bar where Santana's waiting with a plethora of questions. Before she can make it a foot away, a tiny hand grasps her own. Realising who it belongs to, the cheerleader grimaces and drops it instantaneously. "What, Berry?" She doesn't turn around, and Rachel's left wondering just what the hell's going on.

"Why did you do that for me?" she asks, and her voice is so small that Quinn struggles to hear her over the Pokerface intro. She wants to pretend that she didn't hear and keep walking, but she knows that Rachel could see her shoulders tense at the loaded question.

"Puck's a douchebag, and you didn't deserve that."

"You helped me." Rachel speaks as though Quinn hadn't, and her brows are furrowed as she looks at Quinn's face where the other girl has just barely turned her head to look at the star. She stares at her like she's a puzzle she just can't work out, or a score bearing an elusive C6.

It unnerves the blonde and she jerks away from Rachel in a swish of hair. "Don't get used to it," is all Quinn says before stalking off to join Santana at the bar. Rachel is left staring after the enigma that is Quinn Fabray wordlessly.

What the hell just happened?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is mostly a filler chapter, to give you and Rachel a little look into Quinn's past. The next should be more interesting.**

Rachel doesn't go back to the club the next night. Noah texts periodically, asking where she is, until she finally switches her cellphone off and tosses it under the bed for good measure. Usually, on a Saturday night, she's at Discovery watching as Noah gets wasted and throws himself at other girls - or at a party watching a very similar scene play out. This Saturday, she stays in with her dads watching Funny Girl for the millionth time, despite her desire to find Quinn and get a valid explanation from her. In her drunken state the night before, she let the cheerleader fob her off with a crappy excuse. Now that she's lucid, she wouldn't mind something substantial.

Most of the evening is a blur, and Rachel can recall only four main points: police, Quinn, Noah and drugs. These aspects of the night are all too clear in her mind.

The policeman, she remembers, is a man who would have been handsome, if not for his lacking personality. He accused her of something. Possession, she thinks. Mr Schue says that's nine-tenths of the law but, having no real knowledge of anything outside of musical theatre and sex, the words may as well have been Swahili to Rachel Berry. All she knows is that last night was a very, ___very_ close call.

Also, Noah is an asshole. This isn't a recent discovery. It isn't really even a discovery - he's always been an asshole, and she's never been under the illusion of anything otherwise. It's just that last night epitomised his inability to think of anyone else. She can only be thankful that the policeman took Quinn's words at face value, or she'd be screwed right about now.

Quinn. Quinn is Rachel's most vivid recollection. She remembers, guiltily, the way seeing the cheerleader had made her throat drier than the Sahara and somewhere else quite the opposite. The memory alone makes her breathing hitch ever so slightly, and she flushes.

If her fathers notice, they don't say anything.

Rachel never used to think about Quinn Fabray. Ever. Not since after the babygate disaster, when the blonde had slowly begun to sever ties with anything remotely linking her to glee club and a negative status on the school's radar. Slowly, the girl had worked her way back up to the top where she currently sat, lording it over William McKinley High School.

Where the drugs raps fit in, Rachel doesn't know. It's never comes up in school, she's sure of that. There's probably some unsubstantiated rumours she can rake for if she tries hard enough, but Rachel isn't certain they're enough to rest her over-working mind. This leaves her only one option: talk to Quinn. It's not an idea that instills the same sense of trepidation that it used to. Quinn did something nice for her last night - the nicest thing anyone's ever done for her, she's certain. That has to mean something, right?

The movie flashes past on the screen, with the barest of acknowledgements from the three on the sofa - the teen because she's lost in her own thoughts, and her fathers because they can do nothing but marvel at their daughter's lack of enthusiasm for Streisand. Sam, the taller African-American, furrows his brow and he opens his mouth to comment but is cut off by a sharp nudge from his husband's elbow. He winces, and shoots a glare at the smaller man who reciprocates in a fashion that says, "we just got her back, don't ruin that". Despite his paternal instincts, the man concedes and wraps his arms around Frank gingerly, face breaking into a small smile as his spouse snuggles into his warm embrace. Rachel will talk to them soon enough. It's very rare for her not to.

When Monday rolls by, Rachel still hasn't said a word to either of her fathers about what's troubling her. Sam tries to bring it up at breakfast, but the second he does she's up like a shot, out of the door and warbling excuses about how she needs to see Mr Schuester before class. The black man sighs, running a hand over his shaved head and receives a shrug from his husband. "What can you do?"

Sam misses the days when they had an unpopular daughter who worked under the misapprehension that talking to her parents was cool, they both do. Was that horrible of them? To wish that their daughter didn't have friends? It is horrible, the man certifies in his mind - but he's not sure it's uncalled for.

At school, Rachel hasn't gone to see Mr Schuester or even anywhere near the choir room. Instead, she works up the nerve to approach school royalty. She paces up and down the corridor in front of the other girl's locker, until she hears a throat clear behind her and she jerks her head towards the intrusion.

Jacob Ben Israeli stands, looking at her with those creepy, beady little eyes. "This is my spot," he says, and Rachel fights the urge to laugh. She raises a sceptical eyebrow at him, and he reiterates, "This is my spot."

"Meaning?" she encourages.

"Meaning, that I have been coming here for ___six weeks_to get my hands on that fine piece of ass and you are not going to mess that up for me." At the questioning look he adds, "Quinn. Someday she will see that ours is a love to last the ages."

This time, Rachel actually does laugh. "'A love to last the ages'? You just called her a 'fine piece of ass'!"

"Whatever, just get out of my space. You're cramping my style."

"Yeah, 'cause Quinn's gonna just come by and declare she wants you. Get real." Rachel doesn't know why she's keeping the conversation going. She's actually glad that the boy's moved his disturbing obsession to someone else - she just doesn't like that that someone is Quinn. For that, she doesn't have a reason.

"Are you kidding? The girl's a trainwreck. It's time to ___pounce_." He does some kind of tiger claw, and Rachel cringes. There is something seriously ___wrong_ with this boy.

Once she replays the words in her mind, she let's a curious question slip, "Trainwreck?" There is a small smirk on her lips. Maybe she won't have to confront Quinn after all.

"Uh-huh," he says with a nod, "Word on the street is she's a total junkie. Drug dealer too. A criminal record longer than your list of extra-curriculars. Some day, she's gonna be desperate. And I'll be here waiting for her to fall into my arms."

Rachel's caught between being thankful that she got the info without having to part with her underwear, and severely ticked off at how lowly her thinks of Quinn. "She'll never be that desperate! She'll never even be desperate." She should cut herself off there, at extreme risk of embarrassment, but she's struck with a case of verbal diarrhoea and the words keep coming faster than she can stop them. "She may have problems, sure. So she does drugs? Along with half of the student body. She has a criminal record? So did Robert Downey Jr. and look where he ended up! So ___maybe_ you just need to back off and leave her alone, because the last thing she needs is some little creep like you hounding her twenty-four/seven. She is a beautiful, talented girl who is going to make something of herself one day. Without you."

Jacob just looks stunned.

"Well, Berry, if you and JewFro are done fighting over me, I'd like to get into my locker." Rachel whips around to find herself practically nose-to-nose with Quinn. Oh boy. That's embarrassing. Oddly enough, she thinks she can see the tiniest hint of a blush on the cheerleader's cheeks but before she can investigate further she's shoved roughly out of the way as Quinn barges her way past to the lockers. Jacob moves out of the way quickly, but not without taking a giant whiff of the air around her. Rachel cringes along with Quinn. Once he's gone, all of Rachel's usual bravado is stripped away by the blonde's presence. After an awkward moment's silence, she addresses the other girl. "Can we talk?"

"No," is Quinn's short answer, and she's already walking to her first class. Rachel follows her with her gaze for a moment, but soon the cheerleader is lost amongst the bustling crowd of students. Now what?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Daily updates ftw, yes?**

Rachel doesn't manage to catch Quinn at school all week, but it's not for lack of trying. She booted Jacob from his camping spot outside the cheerleader's locker, only to find that the other girl had taken to coming in ten minutes into second period. Rachel Berry was willing to do a lot of things to get answers from Quinn, but sacrificing her 100% attendance record was not one of them. This meant that confronting her before school began was out.

Next, she tries to find her during break, but she's always surrounded by an ever-changing group of cheerleaders. The only two constants are Santana, and a tall blonde girl whose name Rachel doesn't know. She wonders sadly if this girl is just a stand-in for Brittany - then she wonders if the girl herself knows that. If she's been going to McKinley for more than a year or so, there's no way she couldn't. But then, maybe Rachel's being cynical. Maybe Quinn and the blonde girl are legitimate friends - maybe they go home and braid each others hair and make girl talk and gossip about boys, but Rachel doesn't think so. Rachel ___thinks_ it's Quinn subconsciously projecting her need to have a grip on a girl who's already gone - but she's a singer, not a psychologist. Regardless of the blonde's identity, breaks are out.

She waits for a day, in the hopes that Quinn will drop her guard and begin coming to class on time again or walk alone in the halls. It's a fruitless effort.

Thursday, she resorts to telling the blonde girl (Whitney, she recently discovered - coincidence?) that there's a giant duck dancing on a table in the cafeteria. It takes for the cheerleader to look at her like she's certifiably insane for her to remember: she's not Brittany. She will never ___be_Brittany. The diva scolds herself for falling into Quinn's false little world so easily, and shakes her head at the girl. "Sorry, I...thought you were someone else." She sounds so defeated that Whitney doesn't have the heart to throw an insult at her like she's been trained to. Instead she just nods, the ghost of a sad smile on her lips. She got used to people treating her like she was retarded, but it didn't ever really get easier. She was everyone's replacement Brittany, and no one's Whitney. That stung.

Friday, the turn of events is much the same as the previous four school days: fucking useless.

When she gets home, she tries decide on how she should play it from now on. She could wait until Monday, but the suspense is killing her already. It's been a week since she had any real interaction with Quinn, and Rachel has found that she suddenly craves it. It takes some deliberation, but finally she digs out one of her shortest dresses that Noah used to parade her around in and does her make-up ready for a long night out. She doesn't want to do this, but catching Quinn off-guard is the only way she is going to get her answers. Rachel is going to go back to Discovery.

When her parents see her at the bottom of the stairs, decked out in her sluttiest gear, they sigh simultaneously. They knew, deep down, that it was too good to last. She waves goodbye to them, and they only give her the barest of disappointed acknowledgements. For the first time, the diva sees how hurt her fathers are by her actions over the past year. She resolves resolutely to spend more time with them, and get their family of three back to a family of three instead of a couple of gay men and an estranged teen - after she speaks with Quinn.

She's only been in the club for five minutes, and already she's been offered three different drugs - all of which she has politely declined, of course. After last week, she's been hesitant about being seen with ___talc_(which she takes to school in case of slushie incidents, even though they've all but stopped now)_.  
_  
She's been in the club ten minutes when someone tries to slip something into her diet coke. She decides that from now on, she isn't going to put her drink down. She "accidentally" knocks the glass over the edge of the bar, spilling its contents and watching with a smug grin as they soak into the berber carpet. "Whoopsies." She watches as the shady man grumbles something and shufles away, defeated. She wraps her arms tightly around her body defensively, keeping an eye out for any sign of Quinn Fabray.

Thirty minutes later, and she still hasn't had much luck. She sits at the bar, nursing her one drink of the evening - a long vodka. When she finally gets her chance to talk, she wants to at least be sober. She's startled out of her thoughts by a tapping on her shoulder and she smiles, thinking that Quinn must have come around. No such luck. When she turns around, she finds that there's some skinhead leering at her - a man who must have been at least in his mid-twenties, if he wasn't even older. She grimaces as the stench of alcohol wafts from him and recoils when one of his disgustingly sweaty hands finds her hip. She wonders what Quinn's would feel like there, but the calloused thumb rubbing in circles just barely above the hemline of her dress makes her hold that thought. She smacks his wandering hands away vehemently. Before she can give him a piece of her mind, a slender arm slips around her waist.

"Sorry I took so long, babe. The line was fucking ridiculous." Soft lips press against Rachel's cheek briefly and she feels her legs turn to jelly, and the way the hand now situated on her hip is moving up and down possessively is ___not _helping. She doesn't have to speculate on what Quinn's hand would feel like anymore because it's ___there_. Oh god. Her knees buckle, and she finds herself leaning into the cheerleader's reluctant embrace.

"Sh-shit, Fabray. I didn't realise she was with you, I swear!"

"Well, she is." Rachel feels her stomach do backflips at the words, and the butterflies usually reserved for boys rear their ugly heads into life.

The man backs up quickly at Quinn's glare, not taking long to immerse himself into the mob of party-goers. Rachel finds herself impressed at how much hold Quinn seems to have over everyone, not just the students at McKinley. "That's twice I've saved your ass. What are you going to do for me?" Rachel likes to think it was a flirtatious comment, but it was nothing short of really, really annoyed. The other girl sighs. "What are you doing here, Berry? This place isn't for people like you." Rachel struggles to focus on her questions, her mind solely on the fact that Quinn still hasn't removed her arm and she feels like her head's going to explode with all these confused feelings jumbling themselves into her normally logical mind. As if sensing the diva's discomfort, the blonde instantly disentangles herself from the other girl with a mild look of disgust. "What are you doing here?" she repeats.

"I came to see you," the brunette says, the reason sounding pathetic and weak even to her.

Quinn's eyebrows narrow briefly, then she grabs for a napkin from the dispenser at the bar. She roots around in her clutch for a pen, and Rachel's curiosity prevents her from looking away - upon catching sight of condoms and a range of different Ziplocs like she'd seen Noah with, she wishes she did. She isn't certain which of the items disgusts her more, although she has no real reason to look down on either. She is far from the innocent girl that everyone seems to label her.

Once she's finally found a pen, Quinn scrawls down a series of numbers then shoves the balled up napkin into the starlet's waiting hand. "Call me sometime." Rachel looks surprised, and Quinn elaborates: "Well, it's not like you're going to leave me alone. You're like one of those yippy little terriers. And I don't want you _here_." She pauses and then adds quietly, "You might get hurt." Rachel isn't sure if that was meant for her ears or not.

"Now get the hell out of here before I ___let_some sleazeball take you home," Quinn snaps before the star can question what her words meant.

Rachel doesn't have to be told twice.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Double update owns daily update?**

Rachel Berry doesn't really think she's gay. In fact, up until last week it was quite positively proven that she was pretty damn straight, complete with hot jock boyfriend and hetero sex. Then Quinn Fabray has to come along and royally fuck that up.

Admittedly, she's never really labelled herself - with two gay men for parents, an open mind is more of a prerequisite than a conscious choice. Before now though, she's never given a relationship with a girl a second thought - or a first thought, even. Although, having said that, she's never considered a real relationship with anyone. Even Noah was just a boy to fill time with until she could move to New York and fall in love with some handsome city boy - after she's won a few roles on Broadway, of course.

So, in her meticulously planned life, there is really no room whatsoever for an attraction to the girl who spent the last three years making her life hell. God, she wishes it worked like that. But it doesn't, and the fact of the matter is that the blonde is beginning to make her heart race. And when she thinks about it, which is every other minute of the day, she can see herself falling in love with her. She can see Broadway pushed aside for some worthless job in Lima, she can see her future husband, derivative of ex-boyfriend Jesse St. James, morph into a teen mother-cum-drug dealer before her eyes, she can see a penthouse suite become a dingy one bedroom affair; and she's oddly okay with this.

It doesn't matter anyway - if the child she gave away and the rubbers in her purse were anything to go by, Rachel would guess that she didn't even have a chance with Quinn. This thought made her heart give an odd twinge, but she pushed it aside. She is going to go to New York and marry that carbon-copy of a perfect man that she had yet to find. She is going to play Elpheba, or Glinda, or Sister Mary Patrick or ___something_. And, when she is scrubbing off green face paint and trying to get the colour out of her nails, she will ___not_be thinking of Quinn Fabray. Never.

Sighing, she rests her head against the chain of the swing she's sitting on. It's been a long time since she came to a children's play park. Too long, she thinks. They're great places for thinking - but she hasn't been doing much of that recently. If she had been, she wouldn't have been with Puck. She would have been caught up in a whirlwind of Lima's crazy underworld. Quinn Fabray was a part of that underworld though, and suddenly she doesn't feel that it's such a bad place to be.

After another few moments contemplation, the girl takes both her cellphone and a crumpled tissue from her pocket. She flattens the napkin across her thigh, running her fingers over the digits roughly printed there. To call or not to call? That is the question. Rachel wants to call, she really does. However, the feeling that Quinn was playing with her isn't buried very far beneath the surface of happiness at the number in her possession.

"You gonna call me or just sit and stare at it?"

The husky whisper dangerously close to her ear almost makes Rachel fall from her seat, but she catches herself before she gets that far, hand on her fast beating heart. Whether it's pumping hard from surprise or from her company, the diva doesn't know. Quinn doesn't seem to notice, straddling the swing beside her own and arching an eyebrow in anticipation of a response. Rachel finally looks up to meet amused hazel eyes, and a slow smirk begins to form on her face. The cheerio watches in confusion as Rachel taps the screen of her iPhone, occasionally looking to the crumpled paper now lying on the asphalt. She's even more confused when she feels the cell in her pocket begin to vibrate.

"Hello?"

"Hey Quinn?"

"Yeah?" the blonde says, looking at the brunette she is now on the phone with with a bemused expression.

"You wanna hang out with me today?"

Quinn giggles innocently, and for a second Rachel can't believe that the other girl can be a drug dealer, let alone at the heart of the Lima drug scene. The cheerleader pauses, biting her lip shyly in a way that makes Rachel swoon. Could this girl be more adorable? Well, probably if she was less of a bitch, but the star's willing to let that slide. "I...I think I'd like that."

If it was possible, Rachel's grin became even wider. "I have no idea what to say now. This conversation seems to have reached it's penultimate turning point in which you agreed to spend time with me where I would usually ask to arrrange a time of place and meeting but you're already here and I'm here and I should really just say bye and-"

"Berry? Please hang up now." Rachel flushes and does as asked, the tiny smile on her companion's face the only thing stopping her face from bursting into flames of embarrassment. "So what are you doing here?" Quinn asks in an effort to make conversation, while avoiding the subject the gleek has been trying to broach for the past week.

"Just thinking. It's nice here, right? With all the trees and the little kids. In the autumn it's even better. Everything's all golden brown and it looks like something out of a calendar. The boring kind, not the really deeply personal kind like I made for Finn." Quinn recalls the calendar Rachel had made, and has never ceased to find it really, really disturbing. She decides not to mention this however, because she's decided to try being nicer to Rachel. It couldn't hurt to have a friend. A real one. Not just her team mates who felt being nice to her was obligatory, but someone who is kind to her just because she wants to be. Quinn is confident that she'll find that in Rachel "selfless" Berry. So instead of pushing the brunette away with an insult, she just nods. "So what are ___you_doing here? Or were you just following me?"

"Get real, Berry," Quinn says, but her smile takes the sting out of the words. "I think you'll find it's ___you_ with the creepy crush on me." Before Rachel can go into an internal panic and flee the scene, she adds, "I've seen you and JewFro fight over me." The brunette heaves a sigh of relief, but it's quickly sucked back in as Quinn leans over conspiratorially into her personal space. "It was kind of hot." Rachel has to remind herself how to breathe. She's just joking, she's just joking, she's joking - these words have instantly become the diva's new mantra, replacing "Someday, I will ___be_ a star".

"Well, I'm glad I could help you get your rocks off," she says, when she's finally confident that her voice won't shake or crack.

"I was talking about JewFro," Quinn deadpans, receiving a playful slap from Rachel in response. She grins and shakes her head, "I was here for a business deal." Rachel doesn't have to ask what that means. Quinn was here flogging drugs. Of course she was. The thought fills the brunette with irrational anger, but she doesn't let on. Their friendship, or whatever it is, is still on tentative ground.

Rachel nods, because she doesn't know what to say that won't belie her true feelings. "How about we get out of here, go the mall or something?"

Quinn hesitates, and Rachel wonders if she's taking this too fast. They aren't really friends. After what seems like an eternity, the cheerleader nods. "Okay. But...can we go to one the next town over, I don't-"

"Want to be seen with me," Rachel finishes sadly, "I get it."

"Actually, I was going to say that I'm banned from the local mall. But now that you mention it..."

"Quinn!"

"I was kidding, Berry! Calm down."

"You know, I really hate you sometimes," Rachel tells her companion, although the joke is laced throughout her voice.

Quinn sighs mournfully. "I know."

"Quinn..." Rachel trails off, only now realising that her words were in bad taste.

"Forget it, let's just...whatever. This was a stupid idea anyway," Quinn says abruptly, and just like that all of the walls are back in place and the past five minutes have been erased. She walks away, and Rachel can do nothing but let her.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: A short update is better than no update. (:**

It's Tuesday, and Quinn has succeeded in avoiding Rachel Berry for the rest of the weekend and the entire school day. She is, in fact, quite confident that things are finally getting back to normal - there has been no sign of the pint-sized diva all day. That fact worries Quinn more than she'd like to admit, but she brushes it off. Why should she care where Treasure Trail's run off to? She doesn't. She's standing waiting outside of the choir room for Santana and Whitney. Most definitely ___not_ to catch a glimpse of Rachel Berry.

When Glee club are finally done getting their kumbayas out, the brunette she is looking for is Santana. ___Santana__. _She finds her walking out hand in hand with Whitney, and takes a quick peek behind them to see Rachel staying behind at the piano. There is a small smile on her face at her sighting of the girl, but that's another thing that she'd never admit.

"What are you smirking at?" Santana asks as soon Whitney has pulled away from their goodbye hug and walks away.

Quinn chooses to ignore the question, instead asking one of her own: "Why don't you ask her out?"

"Excuse me?"

"You and Whitney, there's clearly some chemistry going on there," Quinn explains, adding to her reasoning, "You guys were holding hands a second ago."

Quinn watches in awe as Santana's expression contorts into one of anger. "Stop trying to replace Brittany! It's only been a fucking year. Whitney is not Brittany! When are you going to see that, Q? Brittany is dead! And that's your fault!"

Quinn can't help but let a few lone tears trail down her cheeks at the Latina's words as she watches her best friend storm out in a swish of red, white and black. She's right. She's so, so right.

"Quinn, Brittany's death was not your fault. It couldn't have been."

Quinn isn't even surprised to hear Rachel's voice from the doorway of the choir room. Santana's shouts could garner a lot of attention, there was no doubt about that.

"It was," she disagrees quietly, "It all was."

"Did you make him stab her?" the words are blunt. Rachel Berry is blunt.

"God, Berry, are you so ___fucking_ stupid?!" Rachel opens her mouth to interject, but Quinn isn't finished and the blonde's voice cuts across her own. "He wanted me! He thought she was ___me_!" The cheerleaders hands are shaking, her bottom lip trembling, tears threatening to overflow with every word she hurls at Rachel. The diva gets the feeling that this is the first time Quinn has ever admitted this aloud, and she's caught between being honoured that she's been afforded the information and petrified of the ever volatile Quinn Fabray.

When Quinn speaks again, the anger has been sapped from her and her voice is laden with nothing but guilt and despair. "He knew me, and he knew Santana. He sees Santana walking down the street with some blonde and he assumes it's me. Me. The girl who fucked him over. The girl who fucked him, just so she could get a start in dealing. The girl who used him as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. I had sex with him and then I took half his stash. Sold it on the street for twice what he was, and there: got my start. He was mighty fucking pissed, as you can imagine. Enough to want to kill me...but he didn't kill me, did he?" She chokes back a sob, running a hand desperately through her headache-inducing ponytail.

Rachel tries to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but the blonde recoils and pulls away instantly, shooting off to the other side of the hallway. "Don't fucking touch me, Berry." She mumbles something else incoherently and Rachel looks at her in question, head cocked to one side. "I said, "I'll burn you"." She sounds broken and self-condemned, she ___looks_ it with tears running down her face as tiny sniffles give way to gut-wrenching, guilt stricken sobs.

Rachel shakes her head. "I don't care." She doesn't know what she expects from wrapping her arms gently around Quinn's waist, but it wasn't for Quinn to grip her hips tightly and let her tears fall freely into her shoulder like she is doing. Rachel sighs, and rubs soothing circles on the other girl's back with her palm. The information, while shocking, makes her understand that little bit more. It makes her want to care for Quinn, to protect her, that little bit more. So she does, whispering all the sweet thoughts that come to her mind in Quinn's ear while the blonde lets out a year's worth of grief into her blouse.

"It's okay, Quinn," she murmurs softly as the cheerleader's tears finally begin to yield, "It's okay."

"Don't," the drug dealer croaks, having cried herself hoarse. She's really glad the school empties itself quickly after last period, and that she and Rachel seem to be the only ones around.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be so fucking ___nice_ to me," Quinn answers, attempting to disentangle herself from the other girl, but the star is stronger than she's even given her credit and holds her tightly in place. "I don't deserve it," she mumbles into Rachel's neck and the brunette has to suppress a shudder at the feel of Quinn's lips gently grazing her skin.

Rachel smiles sadly, stepping back from the the cheerleader ever so slightly. "No matter what you think, you don't deserve to be alone either, Quinn. Stop punishing yourself." She pauses. "How about that mall trip, huh? We can go get ice-cream and some movies." It's with a blush that she quickly adds, "If you want to that is."

She's surprised when the cheerleader nods, with a teary smile. "I think I'd like that."

The words make both girls think back on their previous argument. If it could be called that.

"Sorry," both say simultaneously, then they giggle together.

Rachel links her arm through Quinn's as they walk towards the exit, and the blonde doesn't even complain. It feels too good to have a friend.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'd say double update, but it's after midnight. (: Oh well. Cavity-inducing fluff occurs after this note.**

Their day together is pleasant, if slightly awkward. When they reach Quinn's car, the blonde, ever the chivalrous one, holds the door open for Rachel who smiles shyly at the touching gesture. It's been a whole two minutes, and there hasn't been one insult thrown at her. Not even a little one! There's a sudden flood of optimism in the star, and she can't bring herself to care if it's been misplaced - Quinn is trying, really trying. That thought alone fills the brunette with more of those warm, fuzzy feelings that the cheerleader somehow induces and that she's yet to get used to. She doesn't think she ever will. When she'd read about it, or seen it in a thousand and one musicals, Rachel Berry was sceptical of this notion of "true love". Or even just love alone. Now, she is beginning to feel that pull - that one strong desire to be in a person's vicinity, even though you knew, every damn cell in your body ___knew_that they would hurt you. For the first time since the slushies stopped, Rachel isn't naive enough to think that she's done crying over Quinn Fabray. Not by a long shot.

The drive out of town is spent in comfortable silence between the pair, an unusual companion for the two; usually when they're together, Quinn is constantly sniping and Rachel is incapable of shutting her mouth - although that's true of her in anyone's presence. Still, as the city centre gives way to tree lined suburbia and houses to country back roads, neither girl feels the need to talk. When they pull into the parking lot of the mall in the next town over, both flinch, oddly unaccustomed to the sound of Quinn's voice. "We're here." It didn't need to be stated, but the cheerio was under the impression that talking helped in bonding sessions. That was how it always worked on those crappy daytime TV shows she watched on those days when she was too hungover to even contemplate dragging herself into school, anyway.

Rachel nods her agreement, "That we are." She can't help but find the other girl's awkward narration somewhat adorable. It's clear that neither of them know how to approach the idea of a friendship between them, but Rachel is certain it's something that is going to work out - they are working towards the same goal, after all. Finally she smiles, and Quinn grins right back. Rachel knows that all of her previous observations about the troubled teenager are correct - she just needs a friend. Since her break down at school, Quinn has bounced back spectacularly and Rachel hopes whole-heartedly that this will last longer than their brief encounter at the park.

Great. Now she's making their lives sound like some shitty black-and-white movie. Sometimes, Rachel wonders how she puts up with herself.

When they get out of the car and trail around clothes shop after clothes shop, Rachel doesn't complain - not even when dragged reluctantly into Hollister. Today, she reminds herself repeatedly, is about Quinn. Only when Quinn attempts to get her into another corset does the diva finally put her foot down, ignoring the mumblings of "at least it's not a fucking pantsuit" under the cheerleader's breath. Secretly, she's pleased that Quinn remembers these little things from over a year ago.

After much begging, Quinn eventually concedes to let Rachel sing a song in the music shop; she even deigns to play the piano for her. Her fingers dance elegantly over the keys, and the singer almost misses her cue because she's watching in awe of Quinn's unshared talent - almost. When the little old lady perusing the sheet music sections comes to ask them to sing another song for her husband, who missed their first having been in the bathroom, Rachel looks at Quinn with chocolate brown puppy dog eyes and the cheerleader doesn't have the heart to refuse her. The woman claps her hands excitedly and throws some sheet music on the piano's stand from the stack in her arms that she'd been taking to cash register. "It's our wedding song," she tells them ecstatically, and then goes in search of someone with a camera to capture the moment for the couple forever, "You can sing too, can't you, dear?" If either girl is uncomfortable with the duet's connotations, they don't say it aloud.

"B flat?" Rachel says and Quinn nods. This is the first performance in a long time that has made Rachel feel butterflies of nervousness flutter in her belly. It's not sectionals, regionals or nationals. It's not Broadway. It's a love song. With the secret object of her affections. As Quinn starts to play the piano intro, and a teenager holds his cellphone to them with an extra ten bucks lining his pocket, Rachel feels her hands begin to shake slightly and she stuffs them into the pockets of the hoodie Quinn insisted on buying her.

It's the cheerleader who sings first, thankful that she's heard Mr Schue do the song before. At least she doesn't have to sight-read the vocals and piano at the same time. "My love, there's only you in my life; the only thing that's bright." Even knowing that the words are sung out of obligation and not reciprocated feelings, Rachel can't help but swoon a little - especially at the silky, crooning quality the other girl's voice has taken on. If this wasn't a public performance and she was less professional, she's certain she would currently be a puddle.

As much as she wants to do nothing more but melt, she instead cuts in with her first line of the duet. "My first love, you're every breath that I take," their eyes meet above the piano, and Rachel finds something swirling in the depths of Quinn's that makes her give a small gasp and almost fluff her next line, "Y-you're every step I make." Both girls flush and look away from each other, suddenly wishing they hadn't agreed to this ordeal. Quinn's definitely regretting allowing it to be filmed too - if this video circulated as far as YouTube, she was so screwed. Carefully kept badass image flying straight out the window - at least she can celebrate that she isn't Dianna Ross. That "honour" is reserved for Rachel Berry, who posts videos like this on a regular basis. Or she used to, anyway - Quinn doesn't like to keep up with her MySpace any more, after reading a lovey-dovey comment from Puck that made her mini-sick just a little in her mouth.

After another four minutes of torture, the song is finally over and Quinn strikes the final chord in arpeggio for that perfect cadence. The keys have barely finished ringing when the blonde blurts out, "We done? Great!" and bolts from her seat at the piano stool, only stopping when she realises that Rachel isn't following - instead she's talking to the boy who filmed the scene about getting a copy. Quinn feels a bubble of jealousy in her chest, and her fists clench. It's irrational - Rachel isn't even making eyes at him, all. It never bothered her when she was slobbering all over Finn, and it shouldn't bother her now. It ___doesn't_ bother her now. She wished she believed that.

"Berry!" she snaps, watching as both her companion and the boy jump. Ha, good. "Can we go now?"

Rachel's brow furrows, like she can tell the wheels in Quinn's head keep turning, and she glances back and forth between her crush and the cameraman. "Sure. You'll email it to me, right, Brad?" The boy nods, and Quinn can tell that he's sexing her up in his mind. If it's possible, that makes her even more angry. The cheerleader grabs Rachel's hand and pulls her out of the music store. There's a moment or two, in which neither speak until Rachel attempts to break the awkward silence, "So do you wanna see a movie or something?"

"I don't know. Don't you wanna catch a movie with ___Brad_?" she tries and fails to keep her unfounded contempt for the boy out of her voice.

"No," Rachel says, bemused, "I want to catch a movie with you." Her tone makes a blush rise in both girls' cheeks.

"Oh," Quinn murmurs and the frown she's been wearing dissipates into the same charming smile she showed earlier. "Okay."

She leads the way to the multiplex at the back of the building, and the two girls lull back into their comfortable silence. They still haven't dropped hands.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: With this spontaneous fluff bunny laid to rest, the next chapter should be more plot-oriented. Read: Less happy.**

"That movie was so over-rated," Quinn complains as they walk out of the theatre two hours later, "It wasn't even scary. What kind of horror film isn't scary?"

Rachel just nods, and has to bite her lip not to giggle. How is it possible that this is the same girl who just an hour ago was clinging to her arm, and squealing, "No, don't kill him, don't kill him!" before burying her face into her shoulder? The star has a feeling that, buried not-so-deep down, the drug dealer is a big softy. She doesn't voice this speculation out loud though - things have been going well so far, and she'd like to keep it on that track. Offending Quinn, who seemed to switch back and forth between moods like she was still pregnant, could be disastrous - especially given that she's Rachel's ride home.

"And seriously, what was with that jumper? Red and black horizontal stripes? Doesn't he know those aren't slimming? In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that it was you who gave him tha-"

"Do you always do this?" Rachel interjects, although she's not really irritated by Quinn's word babble. It's oddly endearing. At Quinn's questioning glance she adds, "Bitch out a movie just so you can act like you're not scared of it."

"I wasn't scared!"

"Yeah, 'cause that's believable," Rachel retorts with a chuckle, and Quinn crosses her arms like a petulant child.

"I wasn't!"

"Okay, whatever you say, Quinn," the brunette replies with a roll of her eyes. "So, was there anything you ___did_ like about the movie?"

Quinn smiles shyly and offers softly, "The company."

Rachel feels wave after wave of affection for the other girl, until she almost feels like she's drowning. She grins widely and laces her fingers through Quinn's, "You are such a charmer." If it's possible, her smile gets even broader when the cheerleader doesn't pull away from her touch, instead giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Maybe, just maybe, this whole winning over Quinn thing is going to be easier than she first thought.

"Only for you," Quinn quips back, and Rachel has to swallow hard to get past the newly formed lump of nerves in her throat. The "just joking" mantra makes it way to the forefront of her mind swiftly, before she can somehow succeed in making a fool of herself. Instead of saying something she'll only grow to regret, the star just rolls her eyes a second time at the cheesy remark.

The amicable quiet is back for their entire walk back to the car, hands still linked tentatively. Once inside the comforting warmth of the red convertible, they pull away from each other's grasp. Neither mention the sudden cold, emptiness they feel despite the heat blasting throughout the vehicle. "Do you want to go home?" Quinn asks, looking at the clock that now reads seven-thirty. They left school four hours ago, and Rachel's parents have to be wondering where she's gotten to. Quinn remembers what it was like when she used to have parents who cared. For a second, she feels a flash of impossible jealousy but, as negative emotions tend to when she's in Rachel's presence, it soon dribbles away into nothing but a quiet liking of the girl sitting shotgun.

"Not really," the brunette says in answer to her question, "Do you?"

Quinn casts her eyes to her feet and, in a brief moment of vulnerability, replies, "Never."

Rachel gives her a sympathetic look, but soon her faces breaks into a smile that Quinn knows is to make her feel better. It does. "So, where to next then?"

"I have an idea," the cheerleader says, putting the car in gear.

When Quinn parks the car outside the colourful red and yellow building a few blocks away, Rachel can't help but stare incredulously. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"___The_ Quinn Fabray eats ___here_?"

"Well, not since I was like twelve. My mom took me, San and Brittany for my birthday." Quinn says with a shrug, "You think it's stupid, don't you?"

"No. No, no, no, no," the star says quickly in an attempt to reassure her, "I'm just...surprised."

"What, that Quinn Fabray once had a normal childhood?"

"That Quinn Fabray is taking me to Chuck-E-Cheese," she answers back honestly, and Quinn notes that the note of surprise in her voice isn't at the name of the restaurant but at "me".

"Quinn," the cheerio adds, seemingly randomly.

"What?" Rachel says, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Quinn's taking you to Chuck-E-Cheese. I don't want to be "Quinn Fabray" to you." The cheerleader then adds as an afterthought, "I never wanted to be Quinn Fabray to anyone."

Rachel is oddly touched by the gesture and she quirks her lips in a little half-smile. "Alright. Quinn."

The other girl smiles back, and then undoes her seatbelt. "Come on, let's get a pizza. And tokens! Lots of tokens!"

The brunette laughs openly at Quinn's childish enthusiasm, shaking her head as she follows. She may be wrong, but Rachel guesses that this is the first time in a long time that the blonde has been allowed to have fun. The good and clean kind, anyway.

By the time they finally leave, it's already gone past ten o'clock and Quinn is lugging a giant CareBear out to the car. Rachel wasn't kidding when she said she was good at Skee Ball. She settles the bear -aptly named Beary- into the backseat and then turns back to Rachel with another one of her shy, reserved smiles. Unlike the previous two car journeys, this one isn't filled with silence but with the two girls talking about anything and everything that they can think of. From Glee and Cheerios to musicals and pop culture. They both casually avoid the subject of drugs or Discovery - that's something that would be better left for a later discussion, when they're used to each others company.

All too soon, the drive comes to an end and Quinn's walking up the path to Rachel Berry's house. It's not something she ever imagined happening, and the very idea is surreal. She stops at the front door, finding Rachel looking at her from the porch. "I had a good time tonight," the star says in a hushed whisper, and Quinn nods her agreement.

"Yeah, me too."

There is a short pause and then Rachel, ever the blunt one, asks, "Are we going to be friends tomorrow?"

Quinn bites her lip and averts her gaze from Rachel's. These actions speak volumes to the diva. It's with a sad smile that she says, "That's okay. I didn't think so."


	9. Chapter 9

Glee rehearsal is awful. She says that a lot, admittedly, even when Finn misses just one note. Today, however, Glee rehearsal is ___genuinely_ awful and, for the first time ever, it's all the fault of Rachel Berry. It's been three days since she spent the day with Quinn, and now she struggles to concentrate on anything else. Notes above an F5 fall flat or go sharp; her co-ordination is all over the place, resulting in her having to pick herself out of Artie's wheelchair more than once in the past hour. Even Mr Schuester's beginning to lose patience after she cuts across the intro of her solo for the third time.

"From the top," he snaps, exasperated, and Rachel prays that she can get it right this time. The pianist lets a few notes ring out before giving a cursory glance over the sheet music - he has the feeling that if she messes it up one more time, he's going to know the entire damn score by heart. Rachel is trying to get her entries in the right places, she really is, but every time her attention goes to the piano she's disappointed that it's his chunky, masculine fingers stroking the keys oddly gracefully and not Quinn's whom, in the space of two songs, she has grown accustomed to. It's ridiculous - before Tuesday, Rachel had never known what it was like to have the cheerleader accompany her and had only ever sung with the Glee Club pianist or Jesse playing for her. Now, she can't imagine it being right with anyone but Quinn. Quinn, whom she didn't know could even play the piano. Quinn, who has somehow managed to capture her heart even though she had never, ever put it on display. Quinn, who is avoiding her like the plague, and has been for the past three days.

This time, she finally comes in on time only to sing the bridge in place of the third verse. The piano stops in a clash of notes as Brad slams his hands down on the keys. When Rachel finally looks up from her feet, her eyes are brimming with tears of frustration and Mr Schuester sighs. Maybe he's been too hard on her - it's just that he's never been faced with Rachel Berry being incompetent before, and it's caught him off-guard. Maybe he just needs to remember that, although she doesn't act it, she's the same age as everyone else in New Directions and he needs to treat her in the same way even if she is, and he would never say it aloud, vastly superior. "Okay, guys, you can go. We'll pick this up again on Monday. Rachel? Work on your cues." The brunette flinches at the words, but nods anyway. It's true - that run-through was awful and it was no one's fault but her own. She's making her way slowly to the exit, defeated, when a hand catches her elbow and stops her from leaving.

"Wait, Rach, I want to talk to you." At these words, everyone's pace going to the door slows to that of a snail because no one wants to miss the blow-out that's about to happen. None of the glee-clubbers know what happened between Puck and Rachel, but they do know that she's refused to talk to him for the past two weeks and word has to come out about why sooner or later. "What the hell were you doing with her?"

"With who?" the star asks as she turns around to face him, acknowledging his presence for the first time since he'd tried to pin his crimes on her.

"Don't play dumb with me, Rachel. You know who. Fabray." Where the pace had slowed to a crawl, all movement stopped entirely and every set of eyes without fail was glued to Glee Club's former power couple. Kurt and Mercedes share excited glances with one another, and there is a deathly silence from everyone but Rachel who is quick to jump to her own defence.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Noah. The cheerbitch and I have no need for interaction-"

"I told you not to bullshit me! I saw you together! At the mall!"

Rachel pauses, as if weighing up her options carefully. Finally, she says, "I don't see how any of this is your business." There are hushed whispers as the other teenagers realise she isn't going to deny it further, until Kurt shushes them and turns his attention back to the drama unfolding in front of them. Even Mr Schue watches with quiet interest instead of interrupting the intense moment.

"Not my business? Rachel, I'm your boyfriend!"

The brunette laughs at this, but it isn't her usual exuberant display of mirth - it's cold and harsh, a sound that doesn't seem to suit Rachel Berry. "You ___were_ my boyfriend. Then you decided to use me as your fucking scapegoat, and almost got me busted for drugs!" There is a collective gasp, and Mr Schue uses it to silently sneak his way out of the room. There is only so much of this that he is willing to listen to, but he also knows, from Ms Pillsbury's leaflets, that they should be given the time to sort this out between them.

"Come on, baby, you're not still mad about that are you?" he takes a step closer, but the glare coming from the girl's face stops him in his tracks. "Come on, you ___know_ that if I got made to go to another hearing my mom was gonna send me to live with my Dad in Columbus. I did it for us. So I could stay here and we could be together."

"Noah, you are so full of _shit_. We were never a "forever" couple! I'm going to go to New York, and you're going to stay here and become a deadbeat dad to some kid that the mom doesn't give away. It's how it was always gonna work." His fists clench, and she sees a vein throb threateningly in his temple but she still stands her ground regardless. Noah is not going to hit her.

"I want my ID back," he says, and Rachel tries to understand where the notion has come from. "I made you that Driver's Licence, and I am ___not_gonna let you use it to keep seeing Fabray. No fucking way."

"You think I won't just get another one?"

"No, I know you will," he admits, and his voice has lost some of the aggression, "I just hope that in the time it takes you to get it, you realise what a mistake you're making."

"A mistake by not being with you?"

"A mistake by being with her."

"What do you mean being with her?" Rachel asks, and her voice is clouded with confusion. Does he know about her crush on the cheerleader? How could he?

"Oh, did you not know that?" he questions condescendingly, with a fake pout, "Did you not know that your precious little Quinn was a lesbian? That's right, Rach, a _l____esbian_. A big, raging, fucking ___dyke_!"

"And you're a big, raging, fucking bigot, you don't see me shouting about it on the football field." The voice from the doorway startles everyone, and all heads turn to see Quinn Fabray leaning casually against the door jamb and awaiting Puck's response. He doesn't say anything to her however, instead turning his attention back to his ex-girlfriend.

"See? She's keeping tabs on you already. Soon enough she'll be going all creepy stalker on yo-" He's cut off by a slap across the cheek that resounds satisfyingly through out the choir room. Rachel, looking mightily pleased with herself, tries not to focus on the throbbing sensation spreading through out her palm and instead on the brilliant red hand print that was slowly blossoming on the footballer's face.

Puck looks for a second like he wants to say something, scream something, hit her, or all of the above. Instead, he gathers the tattered remains of his pride and storms out of the room - but not without missing the opportunity to push Quinn out of the way violently with a shoulder to the chest. She grimaces noticeably, and then turns to leave with the rest of the gleeks who have decided that the confrontation is now over and are discussing the new-found information fervently. "Quinn, wait." Despite her first instincts, she does.

"What do you want, Berry?"

"Is it true?"

"No, I'm not stalking you. I heard him from Celibacy Club."

"I wasn't talking about that! Are you...are you gay?" saying the words aloud, Rachel feels the butterflies beat their wings ferociously until she can barely stand it. Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.

The blonde shrugs, "I've been with girls."

"Been with as in slept with?"

"Relationships too," Quinn answers and then looks away abruptly. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Why not?"

"We're not friends."

"And whose fault is that?" the brunette counters indignantly.

"Berry, us being friends...it would be a big risk for you. A risk that I'm not willing to let you take."

"Don't I get a choice?" Rachel inquires, thinking it's somewhere between irritating and sweet that Quinn's so invested in looking out for her. There isn't even a pause.

"No."


	10. Chapter 10

As Rachel lies in bed with a tub of B&J and RENT in the DVD player, her mood fluctuates intensely from somewhat irritated to very irritated to extremely fucking pissed before regressing to relatively mild teenage angst - and then finally to complete and utter despair. She understands Quinn's point, she really does - it's just that, thanks to Noah, she's already caught up in that world, isn't she? Maybe not to the same extent, given that Noah is a small fish in a big pond and Quinn Fabray is a fucking shark.

Even so, she's been in that world; if Quinn hadn't saved her, she'd be on probation right now for possession. Was that not badass enough for Quinn Fabray? What does she need to do to get the blonde to want her? Fuck around? Do drugs? Drink until she's legless? Quit New Directions? 'Cause God knows that Glee Club doesn't bring out the inner rebel, except for that one occasion where they sang Push It and basically ended up frotting in front of the whole school. Getting Mr Schuester to go for that again seemed highly unlikely - he wasn't even impressed the first time. Maybe she could shoplift or something - that was badass, right? Graffiti, she knew, Quinn approved of. Or she had when she sketched obscene pictures of her all over the place, anyway. Rachel didn't know her mouth could ___go_that wide.

She decides to scrap promiscuity, because she really doesn't _want _to touch anyone but Quinn. Drugs is out, because her latest close call with them had shaken her to the core and doing anything further could be detrimental to her future career on Broadway. Drinking until she's so inebriated that she barely remembers her own name is something she's familiar with - but before she'd always had Noah to look out for her and make sure she didn't end up going home with some sleazeball like Quinn saved her from last week. This time she'd, hopefully, have Quinn but it wasn't something she could count on resolutely. Drinking is out. Quitting Glee, she decides, isn't really helpful: she wants to impress Quinn before Monday comes, and then, if she succeeds, it won't be necessary. Shoplifting, she is tempted to try. Except that it's not something she's certain she'd be good at - subtlety is not a strong point of Rachel Berry. Graffiti wasn't really an option, since her art skills really left a lot to be desired and she'd only end up spraying gold stars, being caught almost immediately.

Finally, when her gentle cries have subsided, she comes to the conclusion that she is going to get dressed, go to Discovery - and then wing it entirely. Somehow, she's going to get Quinn Fabray to give her the time of the day. She just hasn't quite figured out the "how" yet.

Finding something to wear wasn't easy, since she'd worn her nicest (sluttiest) dress last time she'd attempted to catch Quinn's attention. Finally, she settles on one of her too-short-for-school skirts (which is saying something, looking at the ones she ___does _wear to school) and the red corset that she'd taken home after Glee performed Express Yourself. On top of this, she throws a light black cardigan to balance the colours. Replacing her Mary Janes with a pair of stilettos is the last step, and when she gives herself a once over in the mirror she can't repress her grin. Quinn would have to be one fucked up lesbian to resist this, she thinks.

It turns out that she's right, because she can feel hazel eyes following her the second she enters the club. She ignores them, instead strutting up to the bar with a roll of the hips for every step and now there's more than one set of eyes tracking her movements.

"Buy a pretty girl a drink?"

Rachel nods with a coy smile, somehow swallowing her revulsion. It's the same man she ran into last time, the one with the wandering hands, and when she risks a glance in Quinn's direction, she can see that she recognises him too. Good. She takes the vodka and coke that he's ordered for her and takes a tiny sip, still not entirely sure how much she trusts this place. "She's still with me," she hears the voice from behind her, and she has to work hard to plaster a frown on her face instead of the smile that wants to come.

"No, she's not," Rachel disgrees, still looking at her suitor and not at Quinn.

"_Yes_, she is," the cheerleader argues, fire flaring in her eyes. The man swallows and his gaze flickers between the brunette and the blonde. The girl he's after is cute, sure, but he isn't stupid enough to get on Fabray's bad side. He still remembers the right hook from the last time he did, and he presses his tongue to his teeth as if to check they're still there.

"Okay, you guys clearly have something to talk about, I'll just...yeah..." he backs off faster than Rachel can say Liza Minelli and she turns to Quinn in anger, that she's surprised to find is barely forced.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Me? I'm not the one to looking to get fucking raped by some random junkie at a club I don't even belong in."

"Okay, first off, you can't "look" to get raped! It's called "non-consensual" for a reason."

"You know what I meant, Berry."

"And secondly, where the hell do you get off doing this?"

"I'm looking out for you."

"No! This is fucking bullshit, Quinn. What, you can ___pretend_ to be my girlfriend, but you can't be my ___actual_ friend?" Rachel crosses her arms and looks at the blonde defiantly. This double standard is going to be explained, and it's going to be explained ___now_.

Quinn growls under her breath, and in another situation the guttural sound would have soaked Rachel's panties. Right now, however, she's just pissed off at the "come here, go away" trip she's being put through. Well, at the moment, it's mostly "go away". "Just leave," the cheerleader snaps.

"No."

"What?" Quinn asks, taken aback. She can't remember the last time some ever dared to contradict her in the confines of the club - she's not certain it's ever happened. In the darkness here, she's top dog. That has never been called into question before.

"I said, "no". I'm not one of your little lackeys, Quinn. When you say "jump", I won't say "how high?" I'll say, "who the fuck do you think you are?" So back off. I have as much right to be here as you." With that, she turns her attention back to the bar, and waves for the barkeeper's attention so she can get some more alcohol in her, and fast. Without it, she knows she's going to give into her whims and do whatever Quinn asks her. Rachel Berry refuses to be whipped - especially for a pseudo-girlfriend.

Quinn grabs her shoulder and she's whirled back around before she can even give the barman her order. "If I tell you I'll call you tomorrow, will you leave?"

There's a pause while Rachel considers the offer. "I don't know. Will you call me?"

"Yes."

Finally the star nods. "Okay. But if you don't, I'm gonna haunt you in your sleep!"

As she's leaving, she's almost sure she can hear the other girl whisper, "You already do."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Double update. I really need to get out more.**

As promised, Rachel's phone blares out Defying Gravity the next morning and she eagerly snatches the iPhone from her bedside cabinet, hitting the answer symbol before it could even have rung twice. "Hello?"

"Hey, Berry." Rachel grins at the hesitant voice on the other side. She tries not to let the smile show in her voice however since, as far as Quinn's concerned, she's still mad at the cheerleader.

"Oh, hey Quinn," she says, with what she hopes is the right amount of enthusiasm. "What's up?"

"Well, I, uh, said I'd call you." Is it just her, or does the blonde sound nervous? "And so I am. Uh, calling you, that is."

Rachel nods her approval, then mumbles a barely interested, "Mhmm," into the phone even though she's clinging to every word as though her life depends on it. "Did you have something to say? I'm kinda busy." That wasn't exactly a lie - she had been busy: busy waiting for Quinn to call.

"Uhm, yeah," Quinn sounds extremely uneasy, and Rachel wonders if she's going overboard on the disinterest - sure, her face is a picture of utter glee but the blonde has no way of knowing that. She doesn't want to drive the blonde away_entirely - _just force her to put a little effort into the chase. "I wondered if, maybe, you'd like to, uhm, hang out with me today? Maybe we could, y'know, talk about this or something. But, I mean, if you're busy..."

"No!" Rachel interrupts her quickly, and then scolds herself mentally, "I mean, I'm sure I could find some time for you."

When Quinn speaks again, Rachel can almost hear the cheeky grin on her face. "Okay, then. I'll pick you up in an hour?"

"Sure," the brunette agrees, already running through outfits in her mind. Is a dress too much for a "talk"?

"Great. I'll see you then. Bye, Berry."

Before she hears the click of Quinn snapping her phone closed to end the call, Rachel quickly spits out, "Wait!"

"What?" Rachel cringes, and she's really glad the blonde can't see her right now. She is not about to explain how she just wants to hear the other girl's voice for just a few minutes more.

"I...Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'll see you later."

"You are so weird," Quinn tells her, but the words don't sound like an insult. They sound almost...endearing? Then she repeats, in an almost whisper, "Bye, Berry."

Rachel murmurs the same sentiment, just seconds after the blonde has hung up. She sighs, and lies back against the pillows on her queen sized bed, taking a few moments to replay the phone call in her mind. When she does for the second time, a fact she'd almost forgotten jumps out at her. "Shit! Quinn's coming here," she mumbles to herself, and jumps off the bed and into action. Used clothes are tossed hastily into the washing basket by the door and stuffed toys are kicked swiftly under her bed - they don't really aid the badass image she's trying to portray to garner Quinn's interest. She contemplates tearing down the Streisand poster taking up the wall space opposite her bed, but then decides that if Quinn doesn't approve of (or at least tolerate) that then she's probably better without her in her life. Now, with her bedroom suitably matured, she has only thirty minutes to shower and choose something to wear. Thank god she had insisted on authentic quick changes during her junior stage school, because it's only due to that that she's going to be able to pull this off.

After the quickest shower she's ever taken in her life, the star's standing in front of the mirror in her underwear and deliberating between the three outfits she's set on the bed. With only seconds to spare, she chooses a casual t-shirt and jeans combination and pulls the gold star emblazoned hoodie that Quinn had bought her on their excursion to the mall, which already seems so long ago, on top. She wants to look in no way like she made an effort for the blonde, even though she had spent the last hour panicking over how Quinn would think she looked. Just as she's slipping into her converse, she hears one of her fathers answer the door and then send Quinn up to her room. She swallows, waiting for the cheerleader to enter her room.

When she does, Rachel watches with a slight smile as Quinn's breath seems to catch in her throat while her eyes look not-so-subtly everywhere but the star's eyes. From anyone else, it would be offensive - from Quinn, it's sweet and makes the lightest of blushes tint her cheeks. Finally, Quinn's hazel orbs meet her own and she smiles nervously. "Hi."

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You said that already," Rachel points out with a laugh, all thoughts of treating Quinn with the world-famous Rachel Berry cold shoulder forgotten completely now that she finally has the blonde smiling at her again. The brunette never wants to miss it again.

"Yeah, I guess I did," the cheerleader confirms, with a playful smile. She settles into herself quickly in Rachel's presence, all hints of unease and uncertainness banished.

"Sit," Rachel says finally, patting the spot beside her on the bed. Quinn does. "I guess we should have that talk, huh?"

The blonde nods her agreement, "Yeah...You wanna go out somewhere?"

"Sure. Or we can talk here."

Quinn looks hesitant, and finally admits, "I don't know, I feel weird with Barbara staring at me like that."

Rachel laughs, something she notices she does a lot when Quinn's around. When she's being real with her, anyway. "You are such a goofball. Let's just talk, yeah?"

"Okay." Rachel can sense that Quinn has something to say, and for once manages to keep her mouth shut so that she can say it. "I don't want you at Discovery." Rachel opens her mouth to argue against this, but the blonde raises a hand and continues with an explanation, "It's dangerous, and I don't like you being there. And I know that I can't tell you not to go. But I can ask you. Please?"

There is a few seconds silence while Rachel thinks about Quinn's request before she finally asks, "If I don't go there any more...can I see you somewhere else?" This isn't a question that the cheerleader has prepared for, but she nods despite herself.

"Okay."

"Good," Rachel manages to say, looking at Quinn, "'cause I don't think I can stay away from you."

There is a period where neither of them speak - their eyes connect, and it's like a shock zaps through both of them. Quinn reaches out and grasps Rachel's hand gently - she's missed this. She's missed this so damn much. She doesn't want to admit this to anyone, but she knows she feels more than friendship for the brunette. It's why she also knows how much easier both of their lives would be if they stayed away from each other - but Rachel's stubborn, and Quinn doesn't have the willpower to fight it. Everything that's good in her life seems to be bad for her - drink, drugs and, of course, Rachel.

Rachel is the sweetest and yet most deadly of all.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: This chapter just didn't want to be written. And now that it has been, I'm still not happy with it. But it's necessary in getting them from A to B, so please bear with me on this one. **

Rachel doesn't want to jinx it, but she thinks things are going well with Quinn. Really well. They're still in her bedroom, although at some point they shifted positions so that both were lying the length of the bed, Quinn's front pressed tightly against Rachel's back. She's propping her head up on her hand, elbow pushed into the pillow comfortably, while listening to Rachel rambling about something that she stopped paying attention to a while ago - Broadway, or something? It's not that she ___isn't_ listening to the brunette, because she is - it's just that she's letting the words wash over her without taking them in. The pleasant lull of the star's voice is all she needs to hear.

Before she can stop herself, the blonde's free hand is slowly threading through the curls that fall splayed across the back in front of her and it takes her a moment to realise that Rachel has stopped talking, and is shuffling minutely into her touch. She grins, making her previously tiny actions bigger now that she can sense the brunette's approval. She's slightly annoyed with herself, knowing that this isn't part of her plan of taking it really slow and being nothing more than friends - and it's definitely not a part of her plan to cut Rachel out of her life - but the way the other girl shivers and whimpers quietly strips away any annoyance whatsoever, and Quinn just wants to stay here as long as possible. Forever.

However, when the Berry's clock in the hallway chimes to let the pair know they've spent an hour in each other's company, Quinn forces herself to stir. She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and Rachel watches her do so with a pout. "Where are you going?" the girl asks, her voice small, and Quinn smiles lightly.

"Well, I thought we could do something, maybe," the blonde answers. She chooses not to voice the fact that being so close to Rachel is unbearable, and she needs some space to get these thoughts out of her head. "If you want to. But you did say you were busy..."

"Actually, they cancelled."

"Who cancelled?" Quinn asks with a grin. She gets the feeling that Rachel doesn't have an answer to this one.

"They, th-them, the...people. So anyway, what did you have in mind?" the brunette spits out rapidly and Quinn's theory is proven correct. Quinn arches an eyebrow, but Rachel just stares back at her defiantly as if daring her to comment on it.

"I don't know. We could go to the mall? Or the park? Or the movies?" the blonde suggests.

"You do realise that all of your ideas are highly unoriginal?"

"Well, you pick something then!"

There are a few moments of deliberation on Rachel's part, and then her mouth quirks into an almost innocent smile. Quinn just knows that she's scheming something. "What are your thoughts on community theatre?"

"No."

"But-"

"___No__._"

"Hey! I thought you were trying to make it up to me?"

"When did I say that?" Quinn points out with a flippant shrug, flinching slightly as Rachel smacks her arm.

"Well you should be!" Rachel tells her matter-of-factly, a pout forming on her face when the cheerleader just rolls her eyes at the words.

"Why? What am I meant to say? "Oh god, Berry, I'm so sorry you stalked me into submission"?"

"I wasn't stalking you! I was at the club anyway! With the guy. With no hair." Even Rachel can hear how false her explanations sound. She was there to see Quinn, they both know that.

"You don't even know his name, do you?"

"So?"

"Slut," Quinn remarks dryly, but the grin on her face strips it of any insult.

Rachel just shrugs, following it with an eyeroll of her own, "Well, what do you expect? My girlfriend wasn't giving me the time of day. A girl has needs."

"Berry, is this you coming on to me? Because subtle is really not in your dictionary." The words are said as a joke, and both Quinn and Rachel are disappointed by that fact. Rachel however, ever hopeful, continues the charade - just in case Quinn lets something slip.

"Maybe it is."

If Quinn had been drinking something, she'd have spit it out at this response. Berry was getting feisty. As much as she doesn't want to, Quinn likes this. "Oh, really?" she raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow, "I'm barely enthused to be your friend. Why would I be interested?"

"Well, I for one can be very...interesting." The brunette is standing just in front of Quinn now, not even a foot back from the blonde. She trails her hand lightly down Quinn's arm, relishing in the feel of the bare skin that the other girl's tank top gives her access to. Then, being Rachel Berry, she still can't resist listing the logical reasons why Quinn would be interested: "I'm quite pretty, you know. Suzy Pepper said "mildly attractive", but I think I surpass that. Of course, that's my opinion. But if I'm to go by the looks I catch you giving me, then maybe it's yours too. Besides that, you told a scary skinhead guy that I was your girlfriend to stop him touching me. Twice. And we weren't even friends. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you had...oh, I don't know...romantic ulterior motives?"

Quinn stares. Just flat out _stares_.

"What?"

"Nothing, you're just so..." she searches for the right word, "modest."

"Oh...so you don't find me attractive?" The question is accompanied with a Rachel Berry trademark pout.

"What? No, I, you, we - stop putting words in my mouth!"

"So you ___do_ find me attractive."

"I didn't say that!"

Rachel shrugs. "It was implied."

"Implied?" Quinn emits in a high-pitched squeak, "How was it implied?"

"Look," the brunette says with an endearing smile, "You're getting flustered." She raises her hand and brushes her palm across the blonde's cheek, giving it a quick pinch as she does so. "That's so ___cute_."

"Berry, stop it!" the cheerleader snaps, wasting no time in slapping Rachel's hand away.

"Only if you tell me how attractive I am."

"You're such a narcissist."

"Say it!"

"Berry...you're so, so breathtakingly gorgeous." Quinn doesn't know when this stopped being a joke, but she knows that it has. "Happy?"

Rachel nods. "Very."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So, I promised a double-update today. An extra long chapter is just as good, y/y?**

In the end, they don't go anywhere. Instead, they find themselves again in the same comfortable position they had been earlier on Rachel's bed and again, big surprise, Rachel was talking. This time, however, Quinn was actually listening to what the other girl had to say and even offering her own insightful comments on the odd occasion that she could actually get a word in edgeways. In these hours, she learns a lot about Rachel Berry – what she likes and dislikes, her favourite foods, her role model (a tie between Chenoweth, Menzel and Streisand – a second big surprise there) and all the other seemingly unimportant facts that make Rachel Berry Rachel Berry. If Quinn were anyone else, she would probably be offended that in the four hours they've been lying here Rachel has never once asked her about herself – but she's Quinn. She's happy not to talk about herself. She doesn't _want _to talk about herself, and she gets the feeling that Rachel knows this.

It's only when the sunlight streaming through the trees flanking Berry's bedroom window slowly dwindles to twilight that the cheerleader finally whispers, so as not to break the magic they seem to have fallen into, "I should go." It breaks their ten minute silence, and brings both girls crashing back down to earth. Their day together has been nothing short of perfect, for both of them – but even it can't overcome the fact that they need to get back to their own, real worlds. Even so, Rachel rolls over to face the blonde, bottom lip jutting out expertly, and places a hand delicately on the other girl's hip through her jeans.

"Do you have to?"

Quinn wants to say no. Instead, she says, "It's a Saturday night." That answer is enough for both of them. It's a Saturday night: Discovery will be crawling, and scores of junkies will need their fix. Quinn can give them that.

Rachel sighs, arguing for what she knows is a lost cause, "You could stay here." She tightens her fingers' hold by threading them through the belt loop of Quinn's jeans in a way that she hopes shows her desperate need for the other girl to stay.

"I can't," Quinn replies, but instead of conviction her voice is laced with regret. "I really can't."

The star nods. "I know." And she does know that - it just doesn't stop her from feeling a painful combination of hurt and disappointment. Quinn isn't going to change overnight, if ever; Rachel needs to get used to these emotions, because she doubts they'll leave any time soon. "When will I see you again?"

Quinn shrugs. She should say never, and stop this mess before it starts – but she doesn't want to and, for the first time in years, she's going to do what she wants. Not what her parents want, not what Ms Sylvester wants, not what Puck or Finn or Santana want. What Quinn fucking Fabray wants. Starting right now. "What are you doing after school on Monday?"

"I've booked the auditorium for practice." She now wishes she hadn't. "We could do something after?"

"Actually…" Quinn trails off embarrassedly, only continuing when Rachel nods for her to do so, "Well, maybe I could come listen to you sing? Or play for you?"

Rachel's mouth stretches into a fully-fledged grin. "I'd like that." She looks pensive for a moment, and the blonde rolls her eyes.

"Say it."

"How did you know I was going to say something?" Rachel asks, bemused.

Quinn just laughs. "When do you _not_ say something?"

"I just wondered why you don't make more of musical skills. I mean, before Tuesday I didn't even know you could play the piano - which you do magnificently, by the way. Had you really never seen those scores before? Anyway, that's besides the point." Quinn wonders dryly if the brunette ever stops for breath. It doesn't seem like it. "I just think you could really, truly make something of yourself. You're easily a grade 8 piano player, if not an even higher standard, and that, coupled with your voice, which is slightly sharp on notes above a high C but still rather impressive, could instigate a musical career upon leaving school." The 'instead of drugs' is left unspoken.

Quinn is silent, silently stewing over what has been said. She used to think about things like that – she used to dream. Having a baby at sixteen tended to strip that from you, the cheerleader found. Finally she says, "Berry, you and I both know that the only thing that's going to get me somewhere is sixty bucks a gram of Charlie."

"Get you where besides a grave before you turn twenty?" Rachel snaps defiantly, but her expression melts when she watches the cheerleader recoil away from her. "I'm sorry that was…"

"Out of line? Yeah, just a fucking bit," Quinn growls from wearing she's tugging her jacket back on over by Rachel's desk on the other side of the room. "You know what, Berry? Fuck you."

Rachel flinches. Never, even in all their years of animosity, has she seen Quinn Fabray this furious. Not even when she enlightened Finn as to the father of his girlfriend's baby. Not even when she was throwing ice cold slushies in her face, or convincing others to do so had she seemed so angry. Not even when she drew offensive cartoons, or called her "Manhands" or "Treasure Trail" or "RuPaul". Never. The star knows she's crossed a line, and she's not certain that she's ever going to be able to fix it. There's no taking back what she said, even if it tripped off her tongue due to frustration rather than spite.

Regardless, it's not like Quinn even gives her a chance to redeem herself. The second her zip-up's on, the cheerleader's out the door and thundering down the stairs, muttering a quick, "Thank you," to the two Berrys in the living room, reminiscent of when her mother used to ingrain her with manners. When her mother used to care.

When the singer's shock subsides enough for her to force her leaden legs to move and follow, all she hears upon reaching the front door is the sound of a car door slamming and tires screeching as Quinn and her sports car tear off down the street. Turning, Rachel slumps against the door. "Damnit."

She doesn't know how she could possibly have thought it was a good thing to say. Rachel Berry wasn't a lot of things: she wasn't modest, she wasn't humble or unassuming or shy or any of those things that good girls are supposed to be. She hadn't thought that she wasn't tactful. Clearly, however, that was entirely the case.

The day had been going so well. The innocent touches, the in-depth discussions, the light flirting – everything was pointing to things going right for them. Damn it, things were even pointing towards Quinn also feeling whatever this strange niggling in her gut was when they touched, or spoke, or even just looked at each other. And she totally fucking blew it.

Rachel has to bite her lip and clench her fists in an effort not to cry. It doesn't work.

When she's been standing there for ten minutes, barely containing the small, choked sobs that want to come, her daddy comes out to investigate. "You okay, Rach?" She only nods, knowing that it's entirely unbelievable. He raises a sceptical brow, but gives her a nod in return. The brunette loves that her dads don't pry. She loves everything about them. Now, the guilt of how badly she's been treating them lately piles on top of the guilt she feels for putting her foot in it with Quinn and her bottom lip trembles uncontrollably. Before she can register, she's sobbing into the polyester of her daddy's striped jumper and his arms are wrapping themselves lovingly around her slender waist. He shushes her gently, and rocks her back and forth until finally the tears dry up. It only took longer once she had come to the realisation that he wasn't Quinn. His arms are too chunky and muscled, his head shaved, his chocolate skin a sharp contrast to the creamy flesh she'd been hoping for. "Want to talk about?"

"No," Rachel assures him, sniffling slightly. "No, I think I'll just go to bed."

She does so, and Samuel can do nothing but watch as the broken form of his daughter slouches up the stairs in such an introverted fashion that he almost doesn't believe that it _is _his Rachel.

Lying face down on her bed with her face buried into the pillow, Rachel had had every intention of bawling until a restless sleep managed to consume her. It happened in all those angst filled romance movies. She's surprised when she finds that no more tears will come – she just doesn't have it in her to cry any more. So instead, she spends the next few hours before she finally drifts off plotting ways to make it up to Quinn. No matter how elaborate her schemes become, she doesn't seem able to think of anything that could possibly atone for her slip-up.

When her dreams come, she can't find Quinn anywhere – but it's not for lack of trying. She searches the entire school building, ending with the choir room. She then turns to go into Mr Schue's office, and when she throws open the door it's to find herself in Discovery.

There's crowds everywhere, and the place smells of sweat and beer and solvents and all sorts of other things that she doesn't even want to think about. Everyone's leering at her, grabbing at her ass and trying to pull her to them. The man who had previously been intent on chatting her up only to be thwarted by her blonde knight managed to grab her arm, and Rachel cast her eyes everywhere for a sign of Quinn. There was none whatsoever. He drags her to the cloakroom, and he soon has his hands everywhere – rough and fumbling and gritty and unpleasant. There's a light tap at the door of the closet. He doesn't stop. Another tap. His hands get lower. Another. They're almost there. Another.

Suddenly, she jolts up in bed and her eyes quickly find the LED clock on her bedside cabinet. One-thirty-five. She groans, running a hand through hair that is damp with sweat. Her heart thunders in her chest and she has to remind herself to breathe. He's not here, she tells herself. He's not here, he's not here, he's not- there's another knock and she almost flies out of the bed in her panic.

It takes a moment to register that it's the sound of someone knocking on the front door. The star swallows, the action clawing her throat painfully, and then forces herself to leave the safety of her bed and answer the door. At this hour, it must be important.

Swinging open the door, the sight that greets her isn't one she expects. Quinn, huddled on her front porch, nursing a slowly blossoming bruise beneath her left eye along with a split lip, and a few minor scratches on her face. When the blonde sees that she's answered the door, she stands up quickly and looks the brunette in the eye. "Is your offer still open?"

"Huh?"

"Can I stay here?" Quinn says it slowly, like she's speaking to a small child. "I can't-" she gestures to her face, "Not like this."

Rachel nods, and moves back to let Quinn enter her house. Relief floods her body at the knowledge that the cheerleader has come back to her. It was the magnetism that came with love at work, she was sure of it. Or, she hoped it anyway.

Once they're in her bedroom, Rachel breaks the awkward silence that has fallen between them: "You can take the bed. I'll go get the spare duvet." She turns to do so, but before she's even taken a step Quinn's hand closes around her wrist. Without speaking, she pulls the star to the bed with her and Rachel understands. She doesn't understand the why – Quinn Fabray is never very open. What she does understand, however, is the what. This is why she, knowingly, slips beneath the covers where the cheerleader quickly joins her. Just before she drifts back asleep, she feels slim arms curl around her waist and she lets out a small, contented sigh.

For now, she doesn't need to know the why.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I hope you guys don't hate Quinn in the middle of this chapter. I know from experience that flippancy makes things easier, and I tried to put that into her character but I think she may have just come out as a colossal bitch.**

Quinn is the first to awake the next morning, something that she takes full advantage of by burrowing her face into the tan shoulder in front of her. Only when pain rips through her and she lets out a small gasp of agony does she remember the exact details of the night before. She groans, shifting her head away from the source of the pain and both the sound and movement rouse the brunette from her slumber. "Do we have to get up yet?" the star asks, rolling over in the cheerleader's arms to face her. The blonde shakes her head, and Rachel smiles gratefully. She wastes no time in burying her face into the other girl's chest and quickly falling back into dreams.

Carefully, Quinn unfurls one arm from around her friend and uses it to gingerly feel around her face. Her nose, she can tell, is in shape and she breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Her fingers trail from her nose down to lips, carefully grazing along their outline. At her eyebrow, she brushes her thumb along and is unsurprised to find it sticky with congealed blood upon inspection. She slumps back against the pillow with a grumble – her head hurts and everything just fucking _aches_. Santana knows how to get the job done, that's for sure.

The memories of the previous night are a little fuzzy from the few drinks she had, but they're all there and it doesn't take much effort to unscramble them. Her fight with Rachel she remembers vividly – just thinking back on it makes her heart twist painfully in her chest, and she looks to the girl on her right. Lazily, she trails a hand through the loose brown curls that are all she can see of the star and continues to replay the events of her busy Saturday night in her head.

After leaving Rachel's, she'd gone home. Her parents, she remembers, didn't even ask where she'd been. Before she left, they didn't ask where she was going. Quinn wonders when she went from perfect daughter to tolerated lodger. She got changed into something appropriate, grabbed her clutch full of stock and was out of the door without a word. Just the same as every Saturday night. What wasn't the same as every Saturday night was the conversation she had with her fellow Cheerio. Their friendship had been on shaky ground since their argument, but Quinn didn't think it had come to this.

"You gonna tell me what's going on with you and Manhands?" The Santana in her mind says.

She growls in response, spitting out, "Nothing. Fucking bitch." She grips her glass tighter in an effort to control her anger, but as their conversation continues it appears to be in vain.

"Could've fooled me," the latina retorts, taking a sip from her own vodka tonic. "I've watched you protect from all the big bads in here more than once. What's up with that?"

"Nothing," the blonde repeats, gritting her teeth. "Just drop it."

"Okay, but really, if there was something going on I totally wouldn't judge you. I mean, she doesn't even wear shirts with animals on any more."

"Goddamnit, Santana!" Quinn shrieks as she rises from her chair, nothing but alcohol fuelling her next statement, "Not everyone is gay like you and Brittany!"

She hears the slap before she feels it. When she finally does feel it, the entire right side of her face is throbbing. She's so shocked by her friend's actions that the fist flying towards her doesn't even register as a threat until it's connected forcefully with her temple. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she can hear Santana saying as the other girl pulls back her arm for another blow. For every time there is a sharp jolt of pain as the other cheerleader hits her again and again, there is a word that it's punctuating. "She," punch, "was," punch, "your," punch, "best," punch, "friend," punch, "too!" Blood is streaming down from her lip now, and the metallic taste clings to her mouth no matter how much she swallows. "How can you be so fucking cold? I was in love with her and you act…you act like I should've moved on! Like I'm the one with the fucked up emotions here. But I'm not Q. You are. And I don't know, maybe it helps you shift the guilt a little – but you _deserve_ to be guilty. It was _your_ fault." It's with these words that Santana stalks off, leaving the blonde in a crumpled heap on the floor.

With the volatile latina gone, all the people around her are quick to help her to her feet and the barman even offers to help her clean up the mess that is her face. But she declines politely, saying that she's going to head to a friend's where she can get things sorted out. And that's exactly what she did.

Looking back, Quinn has decided that she has no right to be angry with Rachel. The other girl's words were very similar to the ones she had been spouting the past year – hearing them said to her made her wonder how it was possible that Santana didn't snap sooner.

The brunette in her arms stirs, and Quinn looks at her to see the girl blinking away the haze of sleep. When she has done, her mouth forms a perfect 'o' and she sits up quickly, "Shit! Quinn, I totally forgot about your face!"

"No worries," Quinn consoles her with a crooked smile, wincing when doing so stretches the cuts on her lip. "I think I bled a little on your pillow though…"

"Don't worry about the pillow!" Rachel assures her quickly, bringing her hand up to gently caress her crush's features. "Worry about this."

"Nothing I haven't had before," Quinn says with a shrug, and moves to get out of the bed.

Rachel does likewise, and heads to her en suite bathroom while calling over her shoulder, "I'll get the medical stuff!" True to her word, she comes back with a big pink first aid box that she sets down on the bed where Quinn is now perched. The blonde raises an eyebrow at it, and the star flushes slightly. "Daddy bought it."

Opening it up, she picks out a couple of antiseptic wipes and an Elastoplast big enough for the gash on Quinn's forehead. "You gonna tell me what happened?" Rachel asks as she gently presses the alcoholic wipe to the cut. Quinn winces noticeably and the brunette rolls her eyes. "What kind of hardcore badass are you?" She still hesitates before she tries again though, loathe to hurt Quinn in anyway shape or form – she'd done that well enough last night. When it's evident that Quinn's too busy biting her lip softly to answer either of her questions, Rachel takes the time to say what she was given the chance to the night before. "I'm sorry about what I said. I know that it was really, really harsh but I didn't think before I said it and I really care about you and I don't want you to get hurt and I don't _want_ you to end up in a grave before you're twenty and it really, really scares me to even think about losing you because you're the best friend I've ever had and-"

"Berry," Quinn interrupts, tearing her attention away from her own lip, "stop." Rachel does so, carefully aligning the plaster over the cheerleader's cut while she waits for her to continue. "It's okay."

"Really?" Rachel asks with a smile, and it morphs into a grin when Quinn nods affirmative. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear that." She finishes her work on the other girl's face, and stands up from where she'd been kneeling in front of her. "So, _are_ you going to tell me what happened?" she asks as she sits down next to the cheerleader.

It surprises her when Quinn does indeed share the story in detail, and Rachel feels honoured that the blonde is opening up to her. Her frown just gets deeper and deeper as the story goes on however, and she can't seem to decide whether it's Quinn or her friend that's more in the wrong. They've both acted pretty fucking stupidly.

"And…and I came back here so I could apologise, and make things right with you," Quinn finishes, "because you make me better as a person. You're getting me back on the right track, and I know that it's the path I want to be on. The path I _need_ to be on."

Rachel beams and laces their fingers together. Finally, Quinn is letting her help.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This is a short chapter, but I might find the time to write another today.**

Helping Quinn is not as easy as Rachel had anticipated. Every time she tries to do something to rectify a part of the blonde's life, she's shot down quickly. Like this morning, where she casually suggested that Quinn miss out on her scheduled party (which the brunette thought was ridiculous anyway, on a Sunday night) only to have Quinn roll her eyes and tell her to butt out. How rude.

Finally, after her pout has been in place for a good twenty minutes, Quinn says, "Okay, what's wrong?" She's been trying to concentrate on the movie they're watching in the Berry living room, but every time she glances over to see Rachel gazing at her like a wounded puppy it becomes a little difficult to divert her attention anywhere but the brunette. Rachel just sniffs, and tosses her head, which makes Quinn roll her eyes for what had to be the millionth time in diva's company. "Seriously, Berry. What's wrong?"

"You won't let me help you." The second the words are out of her mouth, Rachel feels petty and immature in her thinking. 'Rome wasn't built in a day,' she hears her father say in her ear and suddenly the phrase takes on a whole new meaning in the star's head.

To her surprise, the cheerleader laughs and her pout deepens further. "Berry, this," she says, quickly grasping the other girl's hand and lifting it up between them, "helps. I just need you to be you, okay?"

Rachel doesn't understand how anything but her carefully laid out plans that she has detailed on multiple sheets of lined A4 could possibly help, but she nods anyway. Both girls turn their attention back to the movie, and Rachel notes that Quinn has yet to let go of her hand. It's a few minutes before either of them move, and even then it's just the blonde carefully slipping her fingers through her new-found friend's and locking them in place.

Just five minutes after the end of the movie, Rachel's two fathers come back from their day of shopping and sneak their way into the living room to where Rachel and Quinn are sitting, snuggled against one another: TV off, neither of the girls talking. Two sets of eyebrows raise in sync as the parents take in the clasped hands and the gentle smiles that adorn both girls' faces. A grin plays on the lips of both men, and they exchange twinkle-eyed glances. Maybe their dreams of taking their daughter to her first pride parade aren't shattered.

They don't know much about Quinn Fabray, really. They know that she goes to school with their daughter, and that Rachel is quite taken with her. That is pretty much the extent of their knowledge.

They think that they can see all they need to in the careful way the blonde handles their high maintenance daughter, in the looks that they're both certain that neither of the girls are aware they're sharing, in the fact that there have been two Saturdays nights of the past three that Rachel hasn't gone out to get wasted at some club. They think that Quinn's responsible for this. They think Quinn has a good head on her shoulders. Rachel doesn't think it would be prudent to correct them.

The teenagers jump at the quiet clearing of throats that announces the fathers' presence. Quinn, Sam notices with a smile, tries to jump to the other side of the sofa respectfully, only to have Rachel grip her arm that little bit tighter and pull her in that little bit closer. Initially, the blonde looks annoyed - but as soon as a small hand runs soothingly up and down the length of her arm, it gives way into that charming smile that the three Berries have grown used to seeing.

"So, what are you guys up to?" Frank says amiably, in an attempt to rid the silence that is clearly making their daughter's friend uncomfortable.

"Well, we were watching a movie," Rachel answers back, fingers linking with Quinn's instinctually as she does so. "Now, well…" She looks to the cheerleader, the question of whether or not the other girl is staying any longer written clearly on her features.

Quinn grins back at her, then turns to the two men, "American Idol's on at eight."

Rachel's so ecstatic that her crush is staying, she doesn't even complain at the blatant display of mainstream commercialism conducted by incompetent performers who should really just try making it for themselves (like a true star would) that the blonde seems to think they will be watching. As if it were necessary, this cements her parents' theory. The star has it bad for this girl if she's willing to sit through an hour of "results" of which only two minutes would actually _be_ results. The last time they had watched it together, Rachel had made a comment every other minute and eventually drove her parents to the point where they had to tell her to go upstairs so that they could watch "the myriad of third-rate performers" in peace. Sam rolls his eyes subtly. The things people will do for love.

After one of Sam's delicious dinners, which he insisted Quinn join them for, the four head back to the living room and take care arranging themselves around the television. Finally they come to the comfortable conclusion of having the two oldest on the sofa, their daughter beside them and Quinn sitting cross-legged on the floor with her head tilted back into Rachel's lap while the other girl's tiny fingers stroke through the blonde hair cascading across the seat. Rachel had objected to this at first, adamant that as a guest Quinn should really take the most comfortable option.

"I am," the cheerleader had assured her earnestly, earning herself a heart-warming smile from the diva. If Rachel hadn't been falling in love with Quinn before, she was pretty sure those two words would have sent her sprawling anyway.

As the ending credits roll, Quinn tilts her head back to look up at Rachel, who had stopped her running commentary at the second pinch from the blonde, to find the star staring back. Quinn gets the feeling that she wasn't the only one who stopped paying attention after the second break. She had instead revelled in the feeling of Rachel's hands in her hair, before letting her thoughts wander to the Berry household. She liked it, she decided. She liked that her friend's parents did judge her the way Mr and Mrs Lopez did; she liked the welcoming, home-y feel and the smell of baking that had wafted through the house both times she visited – mostly, she liked that it was Rachel she was with.

She doesn't understand how someone who she has spent so long torturing could possibly be so open and caring with her. She doesn't understand how she could be welcome in this house after slushie facials and insults and teenage pregnancies. She isn't welcome in her own home – but she's welcome in the Berries, and she thinks that's good enough.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Long time, no update, huh guys? Well, I'm back – probably not for daily updates as before, but for more frequent updates than there have been. Because, I'll be honest, that was down mostly to laziness. The song in this chapter is Run Away by Charlee Drew, you can find him on YouTube – he's one of the best unsigned artists around. I recommend listening to the song while reading this chapter.**

The evening comes to a closer far sooner than either girl is comfortable with, for reasons that neither of them are comfortable with. Rachel walks Quinn to the door and they part with a quick hug goodbye that just doesn't seem to last long enough. It gives the brunette time to relish in the scent and feel of her friend only for a brief second before the cheerleader pulls away from her grip, gentle hands tracing their way from the star's back to slender hips until they finally retract from the soft, firm body in front of her. When they meet each other's eyes, both girls cheeks are tinted with the faintest of blushes that neither of them can explain to themselves, never mind each other. Thankfully, neither of them try to, both too caught up in trying to reel in their own redness.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Quinn whispers into the dim light of the house from her place on the porch, and Rachel swears she could practically _hear_ her daddy's ear pressed to the door for gossip. Obviously, she's not as understated in her affections as she'd thought.

The brunette nods, adding, "Definitely." She pauses, biting her lip shyly before she finally says, "Do you still want to come to help me practice?" There's a creak of a floorboard somewhere behind the pair, and Rachel wonders if it was this father that she inherited her subtlety from.

The cheerleader too nods, and treats Rachel to one of her trademark grins. It's the one that only the star gets to see, and she's proud of that. Other students, Quinn's other friends, got the condescending "I'm better than you and we both know it" smile or sometimes even the "I've just spread the most vicious rumour about you" smirk. Rachel got the genuine, charming smile that made her melt on the spot without fail. At Quinn's simple action, Rachel feels a similar grin take over her own face and she can't even bring herself to care if she looks like an idiot. Quinn doesn't seem to think so, because if anything the blonde's smile widens. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and it's lost its question, "Goodnight, Berry."

"Night Quinn," the diva answers back to the already retreating figure, leaning against the door jamb as she watches her friend make her way to the red convertible parked a few spaces down from her house and then drive off, but not without a small wave in Rachel's direction. That's how Rachel knows freezing her toes off in the cool night air was worth it.

When she goes back into the house, she thunders up the stairs at a speed rivalling a sprinter and locks herself in the bathroom, turning the shower dial to hot simultaneously. Maybe a forty minute shower will be enough to discourage her dads from waiting up in order to bombard her with a multitude of questions about Quinn. These being questions that Rachel Berry, despite all her confidence in her unexpected feelings for the narcotics queen, does not have a clue how to answer.

When the clock slowly ticks through all six periods in the day and the bell rings to signal school letting out, McKinley's resident diva is perched behind the piano, anxiously biting her nails and glancing at the clock every other second. Three-thirty becomes three-thirty-five, closely followed by three-forty and Rachel realises with a wave of sadness that Quinn is not going to show. She sits still for another minute more, and then stands to take her place centre stage.

"Sorry, I'm late. Got held up after the practice Coach scheduled for sixth." The soft spoken words make the brunette jump what must have been a foot in the air, and she turns on her heel to see Quinn Fabray in full cheerleading attire, sweat dripping down her forehead in a way that shouldn't be sexy but just _was_. If it were anyone else, Rachel would have to swallow past her revulsion preceding a long-winded lecture either on a) the subject of timekeeping or b) how incredibly impolite it is to sneak up on someone like that and send them into potential cardiac arrest. But it's Quinn: meaning that all Rachel can muster is a goofy grin and an intense desire to put her lips to the rivulets of sweat gathering in the crook of the cheerleader's neck.

Quinn arches an eyebrow when the starlet doesn't grace her words with a response, instead only beaming at her in a way that makes the blonde's stomach do a couple of flips similar to the ones she herself had been doing only twenty minutes before. Tearing her gaze away from the chocolaty depths of Rachel's, Quinn settles herself behind the Steinway at the edge of the stage and eyes the pile of sheet music that the diva has left there in an disorganised heap with a disapproving stare. At home, her sheet music was carefully colour-coded based on key and difficulty, and then grouped into alphabetical order for easy finding. Not that it mattered – she rarely touched it anymore.

"Run Away," Rachel informs her, snapping her out of the brief reverie. She can only nod, thankful that the piece is situated at the top of the lopsided stack. She studies it briefly, marvelling at the fact that the dots appear to have been scrawled in by hand, and that in some places words have been scratched out and then replaced before going back to the original. This, she could tell, was a Rachel Berry original and she felt privileged to hold the manuscript in her hands, let alone play it. Finally she looks to Rachel for the nod that the smaller girl is ready. When she receives it, she plays the notes that Rachel has written in with her knowledge of music theory. Without ever hearing them played, Rachel knows that the chords she's jotted down complement the melody she intends to sing perfectly and Quinn finds herself suitably impressed by this.

"Nobody knows, but when we're both there, between me and you there is always a stare." Quinn lets out a gasp when she realises that Rachel's eyes are blazing directly into her own with a hidden meaning. "When they're not about, when no one's in town, nobody knows that we sneak around."

More than anything, Quinn wishes that this song was written for her – but Rachel turns away and faces her empty audience, eyes never straying back to Quinn for the remainder of the song. "Oh, it always shows, when you're with me, you're always happy as you could be. And when you're with him, well, you're just not the same, are you not tired of playing these games?"

The singer takes in a sharp breath in the bar's rest she allotted herself here, "Let's run away spend our life together, one summer day we should leave forever – I wanna be in the sunny weather, I know you wanna be with me." She has to almost visibly force herself not to look back at her accompanist. "Let's run away, girl, it's now or never – we both know we should be together. What's it gonna be girl, I've got all you need you'll see – so won't you run away with me?"

The word "girl" catches the cheerleader off-guard, but she somehow manages to convince her fingers to continue their hammering on the piano. For the next verse and chorus, Quinn tries to block out the words of Rachel's song as much as possible. She doesn't want to hear the sweet things that Rachel has to write about someone else. Not her; never her. As much as she tries, the gentle voice still floats into her ears in words that she wishes were meant for her.

"If it's true love, then you won't have a doubt in your mind. If it's true love, then we should go no matter what we leave behind." After what seems like a century for both of the teenagers, Quinn is striking the final chord and the tension in the room is palpable. The brunette turns to her friend, wringing her hands nervously as she awaits the blonde's reaction. Said blonde hasn't looked up from her safety blanket of ivory.

"What do you think?" The star finally asks, breaking the tenuous silence once her patience has finally been stretched to breaking point.

"It's…great. It's great." Quinn's answer is far from enthusiastic, and does nothing to assuage Rachel's fears that singing her latest composition is a mistake. The blonde stands, her hands shaking with the tiniest of tremors. "You should play it for who it's written for." She wants the statement to sound encouraging – who is she to hold Rachel back from this perfect girl? Instead, it comes across as to defeated, to her own ears anyway.

"I just did."

Rachel watches as Quinn's eyes dart around the auditorium in an attempt to find her love interest hidden somewhere in the shadows. In any other situation, she'd have to fight the urge to giggle. How could such an intelligent girl be so blind? She takes a deep breath, and takes a step towards her friend, watching once more as hazel eyes widen in understanding.

"Me?" the Cheerio breathes in the husky voice that Rachel has grown to love, even though it use to hurl insults left, right and centre.

"You," the brunette affirms. Now, she can do nothing but wait.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Yes, I'm still alive! Here's your first update in a month. Hopefully it won't be so long until the next one, and this will make up for the hiatus.**

It's when Rachel begins to close the distance between the two of them that Quinn finally starts, pulling herself out of the range of the singer's death grip. She watches sadly as the brunette's face falls. "No," she says, from where she's posed herself at a safe distance, "No, no, no, no, _no_." If possible, Rachel's expression drops even further. The cheerleader breathes in, steeling herself for what she needs to do, "Berry, I don't even want to be friends with you. What the hell makes you think I'd want to suck face with you?"

"Quinn…" the diva trails off, before finally gathering the courage to speak to the volatile girl standing opposite her with her slender arms crossing over her chest defiantly. "Quinn, you don't have to pretend with me. We have something." She takes a step towards her friend and watches in hope as her crush's face flickers for a moment, but all too soon the stone cold gaze is chiselled back into her features – a sight the star hasn't seen directed at her for over two months, and the steeliness shining in the blonde's eyes makes her shrink back to her previous spot. "Quinn, please tell me we have something."

There is a pause, and every second of it fills Rachel with a mixture of optimism and apprehension. "We don't," Quinn finally says sharply, while grabbing her bag from beneath the piano stool and storming gracefully from the room. She takes with her a large chunk of the diva's heart.

"I hate you," she whispers, and from the quick stiffening of the blonde's shoulders in the corridor Rachel knows that she heard. However, the cheerleader makes no movement to turn around, instead increasing her pace to get the hell out of this place. Rachel never was as good a liar as Quinn Fabray.

The entire drive home for the blonde is a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts snapping to the forefront of her mind faster than she knows how to deal with. There were so many things she could have done differently. She could have told Rachel she was in love with her, she could have held her close and never have let go. She could have. She didn't. "Could've"s and "would've"s don't count for much in this world. When she pulls into the driveway of her parents' home, she's confident that she made the right decision: the decision that would keep Rachel out of harm's way, even though it made her own heart ache painfully. She has to be satisfied with that.

Three times over the course of the evening, the words "I'm sorry" find themselves displayed on the screen of Quinn's cell phone. Not once does she find the courage to the hit the send button.

Similar sentiments appear on Rachel's iPhone, but they never make it to their recipient. The diva sighs, and tosses her phone to the foot of her bed. How could things have gone so wrong? She had honestly thought that Quinn would like her song. The idea that Quinn would react with anything but a long, passionate kiss was not one that had crossed her mind even fleetingly – and now here she is, alone, bawling her eyes over one Quinn Fabray for what feels like the millionth time.

It's been four hours since Quinn left the auditorium, not that the singer is counting or anything, and in that time Rachel has done nothing. She's holing up in her room, and the sheet music she needs to practice for Glee is staring at her; when her dads shout her down for dinner, she yells back that she's not hungry, her voice cracking from crying herself hoarse. Her eyes stray from where they were fixed on the cloth draped across the top of her four-poster to the empty spot on the queen-sized bed beside her. She misses Quinn. Quinn, who was a complete and utter bitch to her; Quinn who ripped her heart out in the most painful fashion imaginable and who is the reason she wants to curl up and _die _right this second. She still misses her.

The rest of the school week is made of moments where both girls try to avoid each other like the plague. Quinn throws herself into the Cheerios, and Rachel into a combination of Glee assignments and her studies.

**Discovery. Nine o'clock. **It takes two minutes after Rachel has typed the words for her to send them, and then she goes to prepare herself for a typical Friday night.

"Hey there, gorgeous," a husky voice whispers by her ear, and Rachel turns to throw a grin at the speaker, now occupying the seat opposite her, which doesn't quite rise to meet her eyes.

"Hey back," the brunette answers in the most sultry voice she can manage. Puck's gaze meets her own with renewed vigour, and his signature smirk widens considerable. "How about you get me a drink, and then we'll talk?" The mohawked boy nods and grabs his fake ID from the pocket of the jacket he'd unceremoniously dumped on the table. Rachel notices that he doesn't ask what she wants, and she wonders idly if Quinn would be so inconsiderate. However, she quickly brushes the thought off. Partly because Quinn wants nothing to do with her; mostly because she knows Quinn never would be.

While she's watching her ex-boyfriend's rapidly retreating shadow, Rachel's eyes scan the club covertly. Her gaze snaps away from hazel eyes almost the second that they meet. Quinn knows she's here. Part one of the plan in action.

All too soon, Puck is with her again and he sets a pint down on her bit of the table. She fights her grimace. "Thanks," she murmurs, and the boy just nods, not seeming to notice that she is distinctly unimpressed with his drink choice. Wrapping her fingers warily around the glass, the diva forces herself to take a sip and then spits it out in the same second. It tastes like dishwater and cigarette ash.

"So," she says, once the vile taste allows her to speak, "I miss you." She shoots her most coquettish look across the table, and it doesn't go unnoticed by her companion. His eyes light up, and he stand so quickly that he almost topples his seat.

"Then why don't we go get reacquainted?" he asks in the voice she used to find charming and sexy. Now she has to swallow revulsion. His rough hand grabs her own, and she flinches at the sandpaper he seems to have for skin. This forces her to recall Quinn's hands: soft, and pale, and delicate – but still safe and secure. Noah's hands are quite the opposite – her heart races with terror, not excitement. Still, she lets him lead her through the throng of bodies crowding the dance floor and just as they cross the threshold and make their way past the bouncers to begin their walk to the back alley – Puck is the romantic sort – Rachel feels a second set of eyes on her. She turns, to find Quinn watching her interaction with Puck with a mixture of interest and anger. When the blonde realises she's been spotted, her gaze narrows and she points to the spot in front of her and mouths, "Now." Her face is no more relenting.

"No," is what Rachel offers back, turning her attention back to Puck and showing nothing but her back to the cheerleader at the bar.

"Berry!" The brunette and the boy holding her hand both jump, turning in unison to see Quinn Fabray standing behind them, in an overly familiar to both hands on hips pose. Before Rachel has time to argue, or even wonder aloud how the hell Quinn managed to get right behind them, the dealer has slipped her hand into Rachel's free one and tugged her forcefully from a shocked Puck's loosened grip. "Do you really think this is going to make me want you? Running around with this douchebag?" She waves a flippant hand in Puck's direction and he frowns as the gears begin to turn in his head.

The diva says nothing, only turning away like a petulant child, perfected pout in place. The cheerleader sighs and turns to Puck. "Leave." He stares back defiantly. "_Leave_."

"I'm here with Rachel. I'll leave when she does."

The hand that isn't grasping Rachel's clenches. "Berry's with me now. You can go."

The diva, for her part, isn't sure whether to be annoyed that Quinn is once again speaking on her behalf without so much as a consultation or deliriously happy that she is again, in her own, strange, way, protecting her from harm. "I'll call you tomorrow, Noah," she eventually decides, barely sparing a glance in his direction. "You can go."

"You heard the lady. _Leave_." Quinn repeats, frustrated with how long the idea seems to be taking to get through his thick skull. "Go."

"Goddamnit, Quinn! Why do you have to fuck everything up for me?" In less than a second, he's squared up to the blonde, practically screaming his next words in her face. "You gave away my daughter! My baby girl. And I tried so hard to forgive you and just move on, then you fucking break up with me. Again. And now, now you want my fucking girlfriend!"

"I do _not_ want your girlfriend," Quinn answers back in a bored voice. "She isn't dating you."

Rachel's face, which had crumpled at again hearing that Quinn had no interest in her, lit up. Puck's darkened. "Don't fuck with me, Fabray."

"Please, I don't care about you that much." It happens faster than any of them can process. The football player is on top of the cheerleader, pulling his fist back to sink it into Quinn's stomach which he then does repeatedly. Rachel's screams of "Noah, stop it!" and "Leave her alone!" and "Get the fuck off of her!" are each to no avail. The diva then casts her gaze about, but the bouncers are nowhere to be seen. There is one man, leaning against the wall away down the alley, watching with interest. Rachel can't see his face. When she turns back to the fight, the singer notes with glee that the tables have turned in her crush's favour, with Quinn tangling her fingers in her ex-boyfriend's over-gelled mohawk and using her other hand to scrape the boy's handsome face down the sidewalk, leaving a small spattering of blood every inch. Grinning at her victory, the cheerleader stands, wincing only slightly at the dull ache in her midriff. "Asshole." She spits on his face, and watches with delight as his features are overtaken by disgust and rage. "Come on Berry," she says, turning her back on the boy lying broken on the floor, "We can go back to my house and talk." Rachel nods, glancing back only fleetingly at Noah who is beginning to pick himself up.

They've taken only three steps when Quinn feels cool steel pressing against her jugular, and Rachel lets out a gasp in horror. "Tell me why I shouldn't," Puck snarls, a request to both girls. His grip on the pocket knife tightens, "Come on."

For the first time in the many confrontations that Rachel has witnessed, she sees fear flash through Quinn's eyes. "Berry," she hisses, her words hoarse with the blade very barely letting her breathe, "Get out of here. _Please_." The diva takes a step forward and turns, but can't force her legs to take her any further. She can't leave Quinn, not like this.

The shady figure she had seen watching them leisurely approaches at this point, a wry smile on his young features. "Mr Puckerman, I do believe that's enough."

"_You_," Rachel says, but it comes out as more of a growl.

"Me," the policeman says.

"And why the fuck weren't you down here five minutes ago?" the teen snaps at him angrily.

"Me?" Horner asks, his face a picture of faux-innocence, "I just got here." He looks back to the struggling pair thoughtfully. How much good it would do him to let Noah rid him of Fabray once and for all. However, he doesn't think Mrs Puckerman would be so generous with the favours if he was forced to incarcerate her son. He sighs, and focuses on the troubled teenager. "Put the knife down, Mr Puckerman." The boy shakes his head, if anything holding it tighter to his hostage's throat. "If you kill this girl, who's gonna look after your mama, boy?" It's a cheap trick, but it works. Puck's arm drops, his hands shaking as the knife tumbles from them.

"I didn't, I- I- I'm sorry…I, I, I have to go." The almost-killer stumbles his way from the alleyway and after a moment's deliberation the detective follows without another word, assisting the teenager to his squad car.

As soon as he's out of sight, Rachel rushes to Quinn's side wrapping her arms around her in the tightest hug her arms are capable of, relenting only when she notices the blonde's discomfort. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Quinn answers back simply, "Five punches to the gut make hugs a little sore."

"Oh!" Rachel says, realisation suddenly dawning on her, "I thought, maybe, because it was me…"

"No, it's not you, Berry," Quinn says with a slight laugh, her voice still choked from the past ten minutes' events. "Time to talk, yeah?"

"Definitely." Neither of them move.

"Why don't you stay away from me?" the dealer asks, breaking the building silence between them.

"I don't want to," Rachel responds with a shrug.

"Even though you know we can't be together?" Quinn presses.

"Why not?"

"Rachel," the cheerleader almost shouts in frustration, "look what just happened!"

"I can take care of myself!" the singer mutters sorely.

"No."

"Okay, so why else can't we be together?" Rachel pushes, determined to make Quinn work to reject her.

"Well, for one thing, my daughter's like your half-sister. Which makes me like, your step-mom or something. Which is just weird."

"You do realise you're clutching at straws now, right?" Quinn refuses to meet the brunette's gaze, knowing how ludicrous her reasoning is.

"The first reason should be enough to send you running in the other direction. Why doesn't it?"

"I'm in love with you." The cheerleader's eyes widen at the declaration – she already knew, of course she did, but there was something different in hearing it aloud, hearing it spoken by that heavenly voice.

"Why can't you just accept that we can't be together?"

"Because we're meant to be," Rachel answers simply, crashing their lips together in a display of long-building passion before Quinn can say another word.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Wow, 100+ reviews – how awesome is that? (: So a treat for you guys: update. I know! A month has gone by so quickly. **

**There is a reason this fic is rated M, and here it is. I haven't put a great deal of actual PLOT in here, so while it is relevant and hopefully not just smut for smut's sake it can be skipped for those who don't like reading these things and picked up easily enough in the next chapter.**

**And, just a side note, this is the first time I've ever written a sex scene, EVER. So if you want to offer some constructive criticism, I wouldn't complain.**

"Have I mentioned that we shouldn't be doing this?" Quinn manages to get out before Rachel is forcing their lips together yet again – for such a small person, she has a _lot_ of force.

"Repeatedly," Rachel retorts in-between kisses, too breathless and love-struck to sound as frustrated as she feels. In her fantasies, Quinn didn't talk so much.

Quinn lets out a subtle moan as she's thrown against the door of Rachel's bedroom - which they finally reached after a mobile make-out session, stumbling over one another in the darkness of Lima streets. The culprit then takes steps forward, latching her mouth to the blonde's collarbone and receiving another groan of approval. "Berry," slips from the cheerleader's lips disguised in little more than a whimper before she can stop it, and she gives herself a mental scolding – she should be saying no.

The brunette seems just as surprised by her lover's outburst, but a sly smirk soon sneaks its way onto her face. "Why do you always do that?" she asks, barely pausing in her ministrations to get the words out. Her tongue runs along a crease in Quinn's neck, and the girl shudders beneath her. The smirk widens.

"Do wh-what?" the blonde manages to spit out, burying her hands in the diva's hair and pulling her closer, if that were even possible.

It's a moment or two before she gets a reply, because Rachel's too occupied with the creamy flesh of her throat to even think about speaking. When she finally can tear herself away from making the girl beneath her moan and whimper, she answers matter-of-factly: "Avoid saying my name." She trails hot kisses down all of the skin that Quinn had put on display, which she knew –although the other girl would never admit– was all for her.

"What are you t-t-talking about, Berry? I s-s-say your name all the time."

"No, you say 'Berry'," the diva corrects her, "What's wrong with Rachel? _Ra-chel_. Are you scared of it or something?" Quinn shakes her head, but she can't respond because Rachel is making it difficult enough to think, never mind speak. "I think you are," the small star contradicts, before swirling her tongue in a delightfully delicious way that she knows will drive the stubborn girl wild, "Say my name."

"Oh, God."

"Nope, not it," Rachel states, a devious grin breaking out on her face. "Try again." This time her mouth is at the other girl's ear, licking and nipping until Quinn cries out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Seeing that her lover is still trying to keep up her front of indifference, Rachel decides that a different course of action must be taken. Slowly but surely, her left hand closes the distance between them and slides beneath the other girl's shirt. It makes its way lower and lower, until her fingers dip ever-so-slightly below the waist band of Quinn's panties, making the other girl shudder. Before she can get further, her lips are captured in a searing kiss and she's pulled flush against the cheerleader. For a second, all thoughts of her game are caught up in the whirlwind that is Quinn's kiss.

"Fuck."

"Wrong again, Quinn," the brunette informs the other girl with a chuckle, before suggesting, "Third time lucky?" Her hand now slips right inside the cheerleaders panties and gives a few testing, teasing strokes. Despite all of her bravado, she's never done anything like this before and she's almost certain her heart is beating faster than Quinn's.

"More, baby, please."

Although her face lights up at the use of such an intimate, endearing term, the diva still shakes her head. "Nice try, but no." She does, however, adhere to the other girl's request and, albeit somewhat hesitantly, slips a finger inside her lover. The sensation sends more tingles through her skin than it does Quinn's.

"Mmhmm, yeah." In her desire to please Quinn, Rachel almost lets the lack of name slip. Almost.

"Come on, bitch, _say my name_," she growls, pressing herself harder against the cheerleader. Hazel eyes snap open in shock at the 'b' word, but Rachel notices with a grin that it makes her lover pulse even more around her thrusting digit and so she adds another to the mix.

"Jesus," is the groan that comes next, as yet another slender finger works its magic and, gaining courage, a thumb swipes over the sensitive hood at the top – gently at first, before working its way up to frantic circles.

"If I wasn't such a good Jew, I think that would be a compliment," Rachel muses, working her fingers at a steady rhythm and watching the girl beneath her writhe against the closed door, "But it's most definitely not my name."

Rachel's small hand continues its leisurely pumping in and out of Quinn, causing slim hips to buck against hers even more and a soft thump every time the other girl's back thuds against the door. The diva prays that her dads are sleeping, because they are most definitely not being discreet.

"Mmm, yes, oh god, yes, _Rachel_!" is the cry as the blonde finally comes undone, and it makes a smirk quirk at the corner of the brunette's lips.

"Now, was that so hard?" is what she starts to ask, but is cut off swiftly by the feel of soft lips on her own, so different from Puck's hard and chapped ones.

"Shut up," the cheerleader mumbles into her lips, before slipping her tongue easily into the other girl's mouth. Rachel is only too happy to comply. After a few slow, tender kisses – entirely different from those shared up until now – Quinn pulls away from the sugar sweet lips, now bruised and tattered from her affections, and rests her head against Rachel's who has now removed her hand from Quinn's core and wrapped both around the other girl's neck.

"What are we?" the brunette whispers into a room silent bar both of their panting breaths.

The room stays silent, until Quinn can finally think up a reply: "Don't talk," she answers back, voice hushed, "Just let me have tonight."

Rachel nods. She wants to know what's going on in the other girl's head, whether they'll be friends tomorrow, whether Quinn's in love with her too. There are so many questions she wants to know the answers to, but she settles for the only one that she knows Quinn can handle: "Bed?"

A seductive grin takes over the blonde's features. "Bed," she reiterates, grabbing Rachel's hips and walking her backwards until long, luscious legs hit mattress. "Definitely bed."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: So, this wasn't how I had intended to finish this story. But, just in case you hadn't noticed, updates haven't been coming frequently and it really just isn't fair to the readers to make you wait so long. From now on, I won't post a multi-chapter unless it is fully finished because not being able to find the time to get chapters out ruins the reading experience for you guys, I'm sure. So, ICDIA has reached its conclusion but no worries – there will definitely be more Faberry from me in the future. If you've enjoyed this story, please take the time to leave me a quick review. In fact, leave me one even if you haven't. Now, before the AN begins to outgrow the chapter, I'd just like to say thank you to the readers and reviewers and I hoped you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.[/cheese]**

Today is just full of surprises, Rachel thinks when she first wakes up to find an unconscious blonde wrapped around her from behind, arms draped lazily but protectively across her bare stomach. The diva can't supress her grin, rolling over in her lover's arms and placing a loving but tentative kiss on Quinn's lips. Hazel eyes snap open almost instantly, but soon flutter closed again as the girl sleepily lets herself be pulled into the kiss. As they pull apart, breathing heavily in the aftermath of what had easily been their hundredth kiss since Rachel had dragged them home, the starlet is again pleasantly surprised to find that Quinn's face is nothing but a blissful smile without a hint of remorse or anger –for Rachel or for herself– about the previous night's events.

"Hey you," the brunette purrs, in the best sultry voice she can muster first thing in the morning – helped of course by the fact that the blonde now beneath her can whisk her breath away with little more than a look.

Said blonde smirks back, brushing a strand of stray hair behind the other girl's ear. Her own voice, suitably seductive and husky with just the barest hint of tiredness, answers with a simple, "Hey," and she wraps her arms around her lover's neck pulling bruised lips back to her own.

Several minutes of languid kissing pass them by before Rachel finally gives Quinn's chest a gentle push down onto the bed, sitting up so that she's straddling the cheerleader's hips in an, even if she does say it herself, incredibly sexy manner. She can't miss Quinn's eyes raking up and down over her nude form, her eyes almost becoming a chocolate brown as they darken at the sight before her. "Ready for round…?"

"I lost count at six," Rachel admitted, but then shook her head. "It's morning, Quinn. I think we need to talk." Instantly, the singer watched walls build around her friend – the eyes just a moment before filled with emotion now veiled and secretive. Rachel's face falls. She had hoped things would be different.

"Or we could just…" Quinn tries, a lecherous look back on her face as nimble fingers slowly trace their way down to damp curls.

"No," Rachel argues, but the word sounds weak even in her own ears. Yes, her mind says. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Her refusal is obviously taken to be lacklustre by Quinn too as the blonde's fingers continue on their path, a gentle stroke creating a quiver of anticipation. "No, Quinn," Rachel reinforces, strongly this time. The girl beneath her has no intention of stopping. "Goddamnit Quinn, I said no!" She shoots up from the bed, wrapping her arms around her body defensively even though her companion has seen all that there is to see. She feels hurt, violated, used – but most of all, she feels so _fucking _turned on and she almost can't bear to be standing on the other side of the room when there's a body in her bed that can just make her feel so damn good.

On the bed, Quinn looks just as hurt that her advances have been rejected and she pulls the covers around herself with a scowl. "What's your problem, Berry?"

"_My_ problem?" Rachel almost shrieks, until she remembers that her dads are still home and reduces her voice to a harsh whisper. "Are you serious? My problem is that _you _won't even talk to me! Do you think I'm just another one of your girls that you can just fob off with a quick fuck?" Quinn stays silent at the tirade, and that infuriates the brunette even further. She gives up on covering herself, gesticulating wildly with her next words, "Well, do you Quinn? Do you think so fucking little of me?" Tears sting at the teenager's eyes, and she has to take a step back and turn away in an attempt to keep them under control. She cannot look at Quinn Fabray right now.

"No," Quinn answers, her voice cracking slightly while her eyes brim with unshed tears. "No, I don't Rachel, I swear I don't."

"Then why do you act like it?" The anger that had previously flared in Rachel Berry is gone – she is a lonely, scared little girl who just doesn't know what to do. Without turning to face to the cheerleader again, the brunette can tell that she is crying or at the very least about to. She can't deal with that.

"Do you know how scary this is for me, Rachel?" Quinn asks, gingerly getting out of bed. She is acutely aware of every aching muscle in her body after last night's extensive workout. "Really, truly? You are everything to me. Everything that is pure, and innocent, and good in my life," a sniffle breaks the thoughts that Quinn is finally voicing, but she forces herself to continue, "and so I need you to not be in my life. Because I can't lose you - not how I lost Brittany, or how I drove Santana away…I-I just need you to know that it's safer when you're not with me."

A deafening silence hangs over the room after the words are spoken, and Quinn could almost swear she hears a small sob from outside the door followed closely by the gentle thud of someone being elbowed covertly.

"I love you, Quinn, you know that?" The declaration is a shock to both girls, and Rachel turns at the same time as the cheerleader opens her mouth to speak. She shakes her head no. "I love you so much, and I don't think I can envision my life without you in it. I've spent the last six months in your life and honestly? The only person who's hurt me is you." The blonde flinches, guilt overtaking her features and Rachel takes a step towards her, linking their fingers. "I love you, and I trust you. You won't let me get hurt."

"Rachel, I don't know…" Quinn starts, but she is quickly interrupted.

"Do you love me?"

"What?"

"Do you love me?" Rachel repeats patiently, looking at Quinn with nothing less than a plea in her eyes.

"I-I do. Of course I do."

"Say it, please." Rachel asks, almost begs. "I need to hear you say it."

"Rachel Berry, I am so in love with you that sometimes – in fact, most of the time, it scares me. And I know that, no matter how hard I try, I won't be able to keep myself away from you. Fuck, I don't think I can keep _you_ away from _me_." Both girls shared a smirk at this. "I know I don't have the right to ask you this, Rachel, I know that. But I would really, really like," she takes a breath and can hear nothing but the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, "for you to be my girlfriend. What do you think?"

The singer thinks that words won't do her answer justice, so she crashes their lips together with a ferocity and passion that just wasn't there before even in all the kisses they'd shared since leaving the club. She backs them up towards the bed, never once letting their lips stray from each other's.

It isn't long before the only sounds floating through the bedroom are ones that the new lovers make in the throes of passion, and Mr and Mr Berry share similar looks of discomfort from outside the bedroom door.

"Heard enough?" Sam asks, and his husband nods. "Me too."


End file.
